Death's No Antidote

by Geoffrey Osborne

  Jones shook his head pityingly.

  “Bloody ’ell C.P., don’t you even know who you’re supposed to be working for?”

  “I thought… I thought…”

  “Well, what did you think?” snapped Dingle.

  “I thought he was probably working for Russia. But he’s one of your agents, isn’t he?” There was a pleading note in his voice now. “What is this — a loyalty test thought up by Security?”

  Dingle shook his head.

  “No…and he’s not one of our men. Our guess is that he’s working for China.”

  “China!”

  Croome-Pugglesley sat down again heavily.

  “We’re not drinking, C.P.,” said Jones kindly, “but I think you could do with one.”

  The Welshman crossed to the sideboard, poured a generous measure of whisky into a glass and handed it to him.

  “Thanks.” The Foreign Office man gulped half of it down. “Are you going to arrest me?”

  “Good heavens, no.”

  “What are you going to do then?”

  “Nothing…if you help us.”

  Hope flashed into C.P.’s eyes. There might be a way out of this mess after all.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “We want you to do exactly as Dawes asks. Give him a copy of the DNA file.”

  Croome-Pugglesley was feeling better now; more his old self. The drink had helped. He drew himself up to his full height and looked down at the two agents.

  “Do you realise what you are asking? You are asking me — an official of Her Majesty’s Foreign Service — to give classified information to a potential enemy,” he said pompously.

  “Come off it,” said Jones. “You’d already agreed to do it, hadn’t you?”

  “I was just pretending. I was going to find out all I could and then inform Security at the F.O.”

  “And risk Dawes blabbing your part in the Coyle affair?” asked Dingle.

  The man’s new-found confidence sagged a little.

  “You know about that, too?”

  “We’ve always known about it. You’ve been under surveillance for the past year.”

  C.P. shook his head in disbelief. Then his assurance returned suddenly as a thought struck him. He even laughed.

  “Thank you very much,” he said. “Then you can all go to hell; you, your Director, Dawes, the Chinese…the lot of you. Don’t you see what you’ve just done? You’ve let me off the hook! If my unfortunate connection with Coyle is already known to our people — and no action has been taken over it — then the Chinese having nothing left to blackmail me with. I’m…”

  Dingle interrupted him.

  “I said we’ve always known about you and Coyle…we being SS(O)S. It suited our purpose not to tell anyone else. The F.O. don’t know.”

  C.P. subsided like a pricked balloon, back on to the settee.

  “You bastards,” he whispered. “It’s blackmail. You’re as bad as the Other Side.”

  “Are you going to co-operate?” asked Dingle.

  “I haven’t any choice, have I?” C.P.’s face was haggard.

  “Good,” said the SS(O)S man, heading for the door, followed by Jones. “Don’t get up; we’ll see ourselves out. Just carry on as you were. We’ll be in touch.”

  “Wait,” called Croome-Pugglesley. “If I help you, what happens to me at the end of it all?”

  Dingle shrugged. “That’s up to the Director. But he’s after bigger fish than you, C.P., so I wouldn’t worry too much.”

  “Ah yes, of course, the Director.” C.P. smiled wryly at Jones. “Anquila non capit muscas.”

  Jones grinned back.

  “Quite,” he said.

  “What was all that about?” Dingle asked when they were outside.

  “An eagle doesn’t catch flies,” the Welshman translated for him.

  Chapter Three

  The buzz of conversation ceased abruptly when the Director stepped into the conference room at the Foreign Office. Every face — most of them hostile — turned towards him.

  It was a full house, he noted. All the top brass were there. He sighed inwardly and advanced on the only vacant seat. Most of the other members of the Joint Intelligence Committee outranked him (his own official rank was Brigadier) and he could tell it was going to be a difficult meeting.

  “Sorry I’m late gentlemen,” he said, easing his overweight frame into the protesting chair. “I thought you said three o’clock.”

  The Committee’s Co-ordinator, a Deputy Undersecretary, who sat at the head of the table, looked at his watch and smiled.

  “We did,” he said. “And you’re on the dot. The rest of us…ah…met a little earlier. We’ve been having a little…ah…discussion.”

  The Director scowled politely. I’ll bet you have, he thought. I can almost feel the knives in my back.

  “I think I’d better…ah…leave it to C to tell you what we’ve been talking about,” the Co-ordinator added.

  C, the Knight who headed DI6, nodded agreement.

  “Without going into details,” he said, “I have been explaining that we have brought into this country a file — known as the DNA File — from America to be studied by our senior Ministry of Defence biologists.

  “All the scientists who have access, of course, have been positively vetted. My own department is responsible for security relating to the file.

  “I have asked our military friends here” — he glanced in turn at the Rear-Admiral representing the Directorate of Service Intelligence (DSI), the Air Vice-Marshal from the Directorate of Management and Support of Intelligence (DMSI) and their Director-General of Intelligence at the Ministry of Defence, a serving General in the Army — “and none of them even knew of the existence of the DNA file.”

  C inclined his head towards his fellow knight and opposite number at the Home Office, and continued: “None of our friends at DI5 had heard of it, and nor had the Commander,” he indicated the last man at the table, who headed Scotland Yard’s Special Branch.

  “So what I want to know is, how the hell did SS(O)S get on to it?” The words came out slowly and clearly. “I want to know how you know about the DNA File, and how you know that the Foreign Office link man with Washington is Mr. Julian Croome-Pugglesley.

  “When I asked you this morning — after I had cooperated with you and given you certain information — you refused to answer. Now I am asking you again, officially, in the presence of the full JIC.”

  “And again I must refuse to answer,” growled the Director.

  C was white with anger.

  “Do I have to remind you that DI6 are responsible for security in this matter. I must know where the leak…”

  The Deputy Undersecretary interrupted.

  “May I ask on what grounds you refuse to answer, Director?”

  “Because if I do, DI6 and other departments might think it necessary to take action which could jeopardise certain inquiries being undertaken by my own department.”

  “In this country?” asked the Deputy Undersecretary.

  “Yes.”

  “A bit off your beat, isn’t it,” said the DI5 chief heatedly. “Counter-Intelligence and CE are my province.”

  “Exactly,” chipped in C. “As I understand it, the main role of SS(O)S is to handle operations abroad which are…

  “Too bloody tricky for DI6 to do efficiently,” the Director finished nastily.

  “I suppose you’ll come running to us if there are any arrests to be made,” said the Special Branch man, coming out to bat for the home team. “I think we should be consulted right from the start. I thought that was the function of the JIC, so that…”

  “What do you mean by too tricky for DI6,” cut in C furiously, now that he had stopped choking. “You’re just trying to lay down a smoke-screen to avoid answering my questions. As the person responsible for security on DNA, I must be told if you have information about a
leak.”

  “And I repeat that to ensure the smooth running of my present operation, any information I have must be kept in a watertight compartment, namely SS(O)S.”

  The military contingent of the committee wriggled uncomfortably in their seats. Clearly the meeting was going to degenerate into another lengthy who-does-what? dispute. And, equally clearly, the military men thought the squabbling civilians should be lined up against a wall and shot, so that they, the Service men, could get on with the job.

  C returned to the attack.

  “But DI6…”

  “Once employed Blake and Philby.” The Director once more finished his sentence in a devastating manner.

  While C was engaged in another choking fit, the Coordinator held up his hands.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen. We must be rational.”

  The Director looked at him quickly.

  “May I see you for a few minutes, sir? Alone.”

  The DI5 chief protested loudly, although secretly he was delighted at the DI6 man’s embarrassment.

  “I don’t see why he should see you alone Deputy Undersecretary.” He emphasised the word deputy.

  “I don’t see why not,” retorted the Director. “You all saw him without me before I arrived.”

  The Co-ordinator hesitated and then said quickly.

  “Very well. In my office.”

  He rose and the Director followed him through the door which connected the Deputy Undersecretary’s office with the conference room.

  *

  “You remember, about eighteen months ago, SS(O)S was given the task of ferreting out the Chinese espionage network in this country?” asked the Director.

  “I do,” replied the Co-ordinator. “It was felt that because you had done a lot of work in the Far East and had good contacts there, you might have the best chance of smashing the Chinese ring over here…by working backwards.”

  “Quite so. But we didn’t have much luck until now. Remember the Coyle affair a year ago?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, Croome-Pugglesley was closely involved in that.”

  “I know. He was your liaison man with the F.O.”

  “He was also working for Coyle.”

  The Co-ordinator was startled.

  “Good Lord! Why didn’t you report this?”

  “For two reasons: because he didn’t realise what he was doing; and because it was highly probable that, later, the Chinese would try to blackmail him. When that happened, we might have a chance to penetrate their espionage set-up.”

  “And the Chinese have contacted him?”

  “Yes. Last week. We’ve had him under constant surveillance. The Chinese already know about the DNA file; they must have found out from their agents in America. They’ve asked C.P. to get them a copy.”

  The Co-ordinator bit his lip.

  “I think C has a right to know. DI6 is responsible for Foreign Off…”

  “I know that,” interrupted the Director. “And C would have Croome-Pugglesley arrested and remove the danger at once. In his place I’d do the same.”

  “Well, then, can you reasonably withhold the information? After all, America is involved in this, and it…

  “I know, I know,” the Director broke in again. “But it’s worth taking a calculated risk. And it’s not too big a risk because, I assure you, SS(O)S have a tight hold on the situation. And I honestly think it’s our one big chance to lay the Chinese Dragon to rest in this country.”

  “Tell me everything, right from the start.”

  The Director told him all he knew, and, when he had finished, the Co-ordinator looked thoughtful and then asked, shrewdly:

  “But how can you be sure that it is the Chinese who are after C.P.? You’ve no direct evidence.”

  “It’s a reasonable assumption.”

  “Possibly, but it’s not enough. I don’t think we can keep the information you have away from the Joint Intelligence Committee. After all it exists to pool intelligence and co-operate.”

  “Give me a few days.”

  “I haven’t the power to give such a ruling.”

  “The P.M. can, through you.” The Director nodded at the red telephone on the Deputy Undersecretary’s desk — a direct line to the Prime Minister. “Ring him.”

  The Co-ordinator hesitated.

  “All right,” he conceded grudgingly. “Go and wait with the others. But if I manage to get what you want, for heaven’s sake try to make peace with C. Give him some sort of reassurance.”

  *

  For the second time that afternoon, the Director’s entry to the conference room was the cue for conversation to be cut short.

  He walked back to his chair, lit a cigarette, and nodded affably to the others. The Service contingent inclined their heads politely in acknowledgement; the rest made no sign. Everyone sat in a stony silence broken only by C’s fingers drumming irritably on the polished table.

  At the end of half an hour the atmosphere was decidedly strained.

  All heads turned at the click of the Co-ordinator’s door handle.

  “The jury’s coming back,” said the Director brightly.

  The Commander, the DI5 chief and C glared at him; the Service trio smiled.

  The Deputy Undersecretary came in briskly and resumed his place at the head of the table.

  “Sorry to have kept you waiting, gentlemen. I had to consult higher authority on this one.”

  He paused and looked at the SS(O)S man.

  “You have a week, Director. After that…” he shrugged.

  C’s face was purple.

  “You mean he can sit on this for a week? In that time…”

  The Director cleared his throat and tried to make his voice sound conciliatory.

  “I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful to you C; but this is really a case of too many cooks spoiling the broth. The fewer people who know what my department is doing the better.”

  “If DNA is involved — and obviously it is — then it concerns my department,” shouted the DI6 head. “I have a right to know.”

  The Director drew in a deep breath. “I can assure you that there is no threat to your security,” he lied easily. “And I can assure you that there has been no leak from your end. What I know was unearthed during an operation that SS(O)S has been engaged on for more than a year. If there has been a leak, it must have been at the American end.”

  C opened his mouth to reply, but the Director went on smoothly: “The P.M. has given me a week. I should like longer, but if my mission is no nearer completion at the end of that period, then I shall take you into my confidence.”

  “If that’s the P.M.’s ruling…?” C looked at the Co-ordinator, who nodded… “then I have no choice,” he added sourly. “But I don’t like it.”

  “I quite understand your point of view,” said the Director soothingly. “But I’m afraid I must ask you not to take any action which might ruin my operation. For instance, I don’t want you to approach Mr. Croome-Pugglesley or alter your routine in any way.”

  “Ah! So Croome-Pugglesley is involved?”

  “I didn’t say that. He…er…could help my operation; but I don’t want him alarmed in any way. Now do I have your assurance C?”

  There was a heavy silence, and then the DI6 chief said: “Very well. My department will leave Croome-Pugglesley alone for the time being. But I warn you that the security of the DNA file is my pigeon. I shall take any steps necessary to safeguard it.”

  “I think that’s fair,” said the Co-ordinator. “So if there’s no other business…?” he glanced around the table… “then I think that concludes the meeting. Sorry to rush you, but I have another appointment with the P.M.”

  The Deputy Undersecretary watched the Intelligence chiefs file out of the room, and marvelled to himself that he should be privy to their secrets.

  Obviously, he thought, I must have been positively vetted to hold this job.
I wonder who did it? The Commander? Or some S.B. inspector who lives in a flat in Hammersmith?

  His thoughts moved on to Croome-Pugglesley. Pity about young C.P. Came from a good family. Still he must be involved in this business; the Director was nobody’s fool.

  He sighed and made a mental note: must remember to cancel my dinner engagement with C.P.

  Chapter Four

  The judge’s face was stern, unrelenting.

  “The jury have, quite rightly, returned a verdict of guilty,” he said.

  Croome-Pugglesley turned to look at the jury. They stared back at him, indifferent, twelve pairs of dark, expressionless eyes.

  They were all Chinese.

  “You have brought disgrace on your country and on your family, a family with a great tradition of loyal service to the Crown,” the judge continued.

  C.P. looked more closely and saw that the face beneath the wig was that of his father.

  “You have been found guilty of treachery of the worst kind. You are a traitor and deserve to be punished with the full severity of the law. You will be sent to prison for thirty years.”

  “No!”

  C.P. cried out and tried to leap from the dock, but strong hands restrained him.

  “Take him below,” ordered the judge contemptuously.

  C.P. struggled violently, but it was useless. Blue-uniformed gaolers were holding him tightly, one on each side. He saw that they had the faces of Dingle and Jones.

  “Let me go,” he pleaded with them. “It wasn’t my fault.”

  But there was no mercy there.

  And then another voice reached him.

  “Julian! Julian! Let me help you.”

  It was Susan’s voice. Sue, his only friend in the world.

  A stab of light bruised his eyes and then he could see her.

  “Julian! What is it? What’s the matter?”

  She relaxed her grip slightly and he drew in a deep breath. His pounding heart slowed down as he took in the familiar surroundings. This was his own room. That was his own clock, showing five past three. He was sitting up in his own bed.

  “It’s nothing,” he said. “It was only a dream.”