Sacrifice

by Graham Masterton

  D’Annunzio said, ‘Leave it to me, Morton. I’ll get Sienkiewicz on to it, right away.’

  ‘Will you do that? And what are you doing about tracking down Daniels? If he’s been talking to Cal Lewis, he could have been talking to every damned newspaper and television proprietor in America.’

  D’Annunzio said, ‘We’ve made a little progress in that direction. One of our people has located Esther Modena’s mother, in Indianapolis, and we’ve put a tap on her phone. So far, she’s had three calls from Ms Modena in two days, none of them long enough to trace; but don’t worry, if she’s calling mom that frequently, we’ll get her pretty soon.’

  ‘I want Daniels as a matter of total urgency, you know that.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I know that. We won’t let you down. It’s not in our nature.’

  Morton put down the phone. Almost immediately, the intercom buzzed, to tell him that his car was waiting. He straightened his necktie, and brushed the dandruff off the shoulders of his dark suit. He trusted Ernest D’Annunzio, as far as he trusted anybody. In the past, D’Annunzio had arranged for the systemizing both of Jimmy Hoffa and of Karen Silkwood. Perhaps his only notable failure had been Ralph Nader, during the Corvair days. Nader had changed an appointment, and missed one of D’Annunzio’s ambushes by a matter of minutes. But Cal Lewis shouldn’t be any trouble. Cal Lewis was predictable, unwary, and trusting.

  And there was no question about it: this was no longer a world for the predictable, the unwary, and the trusting.

  *

  During Saturday afternoon, an extraordinary silence fell over London. Apart from a few private cars, the streets were almost deserted. There were no buses, no Tubes; no heavy lorries. Drivers and maintenance staff of London Regional Transport had walked out on strike at midnight on Friday; the two rail unions ASLEF and the NUR had called out all of their members two hours later. The National Union of Public Employees had withdrawn all but emergency services from hospitals, ambulance stations, and fire brigades. The giant Transport and General Workers’ Union had called an official strike of lorry drivers, loaders, and goods handlers.

  The Defence Secretary, who had returned to his home in Cheyne Walk, Chelsea, for a bite of lunch and a quick bath, found that it was possible at three o’clock that afternoon to walk along the middle of the road on his way back to Westminster, without any fear of being knocked over. All the way along the Embankment, as far as he could see, there was no traffic whatever. It reminded him strangely of The War of the Worlds, by H. G. Wells, which he had read as a boy. ‘It was curiously like Sunday in the City, with the closed shops, the houses locked up and the blinds drawn, the desertion, and the stillness.’ In fact, he was so struck by the feeling of already having been invaded, as London had been invaded by the Martians in The War of the Worlds, that he hurried faster along by the river, unhappy now that he had chosen to walk, hot and uncomfortable and feeling suddenly vulnerable in the bright May sunshine.

  The Thames sparkled brightly beside him; on the far bank of the river Battersea Power Station stood with its four tall chimneys surrounded by scaffolding, halfway through its £50 million conversion into a recreation centre. On the pavement, a gaggle of scruffy pigeons strutted around a discarded McDonald’s bag, and pecked at a half-eaten cheeseburger.

  The modern Marie Celeste, he thought; a city found abandoned, and still littered with unfinished cheeseburgers.

  It took him twenty minutes to get back to Whitehall. He had often walked before, because he had always loved the river, and because it was the only exercise he ever got, but today the walk seemed threatening and arduous. He stood over his desk when he arrived with his clean handkerchief pressed to his forehead to cool himself down, and kept his first visitor waiting for nearly ten minutes.

  At last, however, Lt.-Col. Lilley knocked on his door, and said, ‘I’m sorry to barge in, sir, but General Fawkes did rather want me to speak to you as soon as you got in.’

  ‘Yes, yes, jolly good,’ said the Defence Secretary. ‘Do grab a pew. I’m afraid I rather whacked myself out, walking back from Chelsea.’

  Colonel Lilley perched himself on the edge of a large leather armchair, balancing his folders on his bony knees. ‘We’ve been trying to keep all the essential services going, sir; power and sewage; but as you instructed we haven’t made any moves to take over road transport or mines. The situation with the fire services seems a little parlous at the moment, but unless we get a real crisis we’d really rather leave it as it is.’

  The Defence Secretary nodded. His orders today had been clear: that the British Army should remain on full combat alert, and that as few soldiers as possible should be diverted to civilian activities. All British forces returning from Germany in Operation Cornflower were also to be kept in a state of combat readiness.

  The Prime Minister had not been at all convinced that there was any need for the Defence Secretary to be so alarmist about the Soviet Union; and she would personally have preferred to keep the trains running and the docks open. But he was a favourite of hers, and at this morning’s meeting of the Inner Cabinet he had spoken very persuasively in support of continued vigilance. At last she had agreed that the Army could be kept up to the highest possible strength at least until public services had deteriorated below ‘an acceptable level’.

  Of course, there had been prolonged disagreement about what constituted ‘an acceptable level’. The Home Secretary remarked that what was acceptable to the family of an unemployed docker in Hartlepool would completely horrify the family of a moderately successful stockbroker living in St George’s Hill, Weybridge. The health minister considered that matters would have got out of hand ‘when we can no longer bury our dead, and rats run freely along Pall Mall.’ Lord Westley had remarked, not entirely seriously, that life would become intolerable ‘when they no longer serve fresh crab sandwiches at Green’s Champagne Bar.’

  Public opinion at large seemed to be that Britain would be finished if the off-licences closed and television was blacked out.

  Colonel Lilley said, diffidently, ‘A couple of extra factors seem to have come up, sir. Well, three or four, actually; and they all seem to bear out your suspicions that these strikes might have been deliberately orchestrated. I had a report in this morning from some of our intelligence chaps in Belfast, and it appears that both the IRA and the INLA are planning a huge bombing offensive in Northern Ireland to coincide with the general strike on May 30. Apart from that, CND are going to organize massive demonstrations at all active RAF stations and US cruise missile bases. The object seems to be to tie up the military as much as possible on non-military duties.’

  The Defence Secretary listened to this, repeatedly smoothing back his hair. ‘What’s your opinion, colonel? Off the record? You had to deal with this kind of thing in Aden, didn’t you?’

  Colonel Lilley gave one of his famous self-deprecating smirks. ‘Difficult to interpret it exactly, sir. But it does seem to me that what the Russians could be doing is making quite sure that we keep our side of the bargain. Even if we do change our minds about Cornflower, we won’t be in much of a position to do anything about it if we’re completely snarled up with industrial and political chaos, will we?’

  ‘Or to dictate any revised terms,’ the Defence Secretary put in. ‘Or to ensure that all or any of the agreed terms are properly complied with.’

  ‘Perhaps the Russians intend to vary the agreement, sir,’ said Colonel Lilley. ‘Unilaterally, I mean; without any discussion.’

  The Defence Secretary nodded. ‘I felt dishonest about thinking them, I must admit, but those were my thoughts, too. If you ask me, the Russians probably plan to sweep through Europe flat out, disregarding any of the safeguards and guarantees that were written into the agreement, like the preservation of ancient buildings and the taking of proper census statistics. Did you read that translation from Pravda yesterday? In spite of all of our talks, in spite of everything we’ve given away, they still think of West Germany as another Third Re
ich, guilty of oppression and hostility and – what did they call it? – ‘incurable revanchism’. They believe that if they don’t crush the West Germans first, then the West Germans will roll in and crush them. They seriously believe it, and no matter what you say you can’t persuade them otherwise. “Remember Barbarossa!” that’s all they ever tell you. That’s like saying remember Hastings, and refusing to speak to the French.’

  Colonel Lilley was quiet for a moment, and then he remarked, ‘I must say, sir, that I didn’t think I’d ever see the day.’

  The Defence Secretary closed his eyes for a moment, to show that he understood. ‘I know how the General Staff feel about this, colonel. But one has to change with the times; one has to adapt oneself to completely new concepts of international security. The political tension in Europe is dangerously high, insanely high. The military balance is close to critical. All we could see ahead of us on our present path was nuclear confrontation; either sooner, or later, but quite inevitable. What is about to happen now will suddenly release that tension, and I think that all of us will breathe more easily.’

  ‘All of us who remain on the western side of the fence,’ said Colonel Lilley, trying without success not to sound too impertinent, or aggrieved.

  ‘Don’t let the Iron Lady hear you say that, colonel,’ said the Defence Secretary. ‘She’s put her heart into this. The final solution for the nuclear problem. I’ve heard her practising her speech for next week.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Colonel Lilley.

  The Defence Secretary said, ‘It’s a victory speech, colonel. And quite rightly so. She’s managed to achieve in four years what most men never manage to achieve in their whole lifetime.’

  Colonel Lilley put his files together, and straightened them. ‘My father was killed in action in Normandy, sir. So were quite a few of our family friends. It just rather appears to me that—’

  The Defence Secretary silenced him with a sharp lift of his eyebrow. This was not the time for sentiment, or for scoring easy political points. Outside the window, where the sun fell through the balustrades, making curved patterns like faces and candlesticks, London lay dusty and silent. Pigeons wheeled over an empty Trafalgar Square, where the fountains had been switched off to save power and water.

  ‘Could you give General Fawkes my compliments,’ said the Defence Secretary. ‘Oh, and could you tell him something interesting?’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘I found out this afternoon that my Aunt Beatrice and he had the same nanny. At different times, of course.’

  Lt.-Col. Lilley stood up, a jackdaw in Army uniform. ‘Yes, sir. I’ll tell him that. What a coincidence, sir.’

  *

  At almost the same moment, in his grey-painted office in Bonn, the West German Chancellor received a scrambled telephone call from the Commander-in-Chief of the Bundeswehr, General Heinz Escher. The Chancellor was sitting at his desk with a white towel draped around him, while he was shaved by his personal barber. Apart from a hunting-lodge in the Breisgau, which badly needed redecorating, being shaved by a barber was the only luxury he allowed himself.

  General Escher’s voice was choked and tense. ‘Herr Chancellor? I have just received unofficial intelligence that the Soviet Army is planning an imminent advance into the Federal Republic.’

  The Chancellor was silent for a moment or two. The razor scraped at his left cheek, cutting swathes of pink skin into the white shaving-soap. ‘What does “unofficial” mean?’ he asked at last.

  ‘The source was apparently the rebel intelligence network they call Lamprey,’ said General Escher. ‘A coded message was received about twenty minutes ago at Paderborn. It had all the necessary authenticating codes which Lamprey usually use to identify themselves. It said simply that they have reliable information that the Soviet Army intends to advance into West Germany at any moment.’

  ‘Are we in touch with Lamprey?’ the Chancellor wanted to know. ‘Can we contact them again, ask them more questions?’

  ‘They say they will call again at 1600 hours.’

  ‘What do our own intelligence people have to say?’

  General Escher said, ‘I’ve talked to them already, sir. They have no evidence to support Lamprey’s claim.’

  ‘Lamprey includes both Western and Communist agents, doesn’t it, general?’

  ‘So we are led to believe, sir.’

  ‘Then this intelligence could well have been sent to us by a Russian?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I suppose so.’

  The Chancellor raised his chin, so that his barber could shave underneath it. He said nothing while the razor scraped its way around his Adam’s apple. At last, however, he wiped his face with the towel, and waved the barber away. ‘I want the Bundeswehr on full alert,’ he told General Escher. ‘This could be nothing more than a provocative piece of counterintelligence; or a plot by the Greens to make us look ridiculous. On the other hand, it could be true; and what with the British and the Americans moving their armour around like some ridiculous party-game, this would be the worst possible time for us to have to face up to any kind of military confrontation.’

  He opened his desk, and took out a bottle of Johnnie Walker. ‘When Lamprey call back at 1600 hours, I want to have them connected through to me. If for any reason they refuse to allow this, make sure that they are asked where they acquired their information, and how they can authenticate it.’

  He banged down the phone, then jabbed the button on his desk which called his private secretary. ‘Ella? I want the Soviet ambassador round here at once. I want General Oliver on the telephone. I want the cabinet convened for an emergency meeting. I also want to speak to Brigadier Smith-Hartley. That will do for a start. Ask Marta for some coffee: and don’t think of going home.’

  He sat for a while watching while his barber cleaned and put away his razors and his brushes. He didn’t open his bottle of whisky.

  ‘Willi,’ he said at length, ‘if you were to be drinking in your favourite bierstube with your friends, and all of a sudden you were faced with a large and angry fellow who wanted to hit you on the nose; what would you think if you looked around to your friends for help and found that they had conveniently left you on your own?’

  Willi was an old man. He looked up with eyes as black and glittering as a crow’s. ‘Well, sir, I would think that my friends were cowards, perhaps; or else I would think that they were quite pleased to see me beaten.’

  ‘Yes, Willi,’ said the Chancellor. ‘That is what I would think, too.’

  *

  David Daniels, about ten minutes later, was returning from the Safeway market just north of White Plains with two bags of groceries. He balanced one of the bags on his upraised knee as he fumbled his keys out of his coat pocket and opened the door of the apartment.

  ‘Esther? It’s only me.’

  He closed the door behind him, and walked through to the kitchen, setting the bags on the formica-topped table. ‘I got us a couple of Cornish rock hens,’ he called. ‘I thought they’d make us a good dinner tonight. And a bottle of Zinfandel, too, how about that?’

  He took out a bag of tomatoes, an iceberg lettuce, and a Sara Lee pecan pie. ‘It’s good to cook at home for a change,’ he said. ‘I got so darn sick of eating in restaurants.’

  He searched through three or four kitchen drawers before he found the corkscrew. Then he opened up the bottle of Zinfandel, and collected two glasses from the display cupboard over the sink. Carrying the glasses and the bottle in one hand, he walked through to the sitting room.

  ‘Do you know something?’ he said, ‘I haven’t shopped in a supermarket in years. I felt quite like a—’

  He stopped. A freezing shock went through him from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet, turning every one of his nerves into dry ice. The bottle fell, splashing wine. The glasses fell, snapping their stems. David found himself unable to move; as if his brain couldn’t connect with any of his muscles.

  Esther had been ritually slai
n. Her naked body was bound with wire, lying on the rug by the fireplace. She had been cut open from her breastbone right down to her pubic hair, and all of her insides had been dragged out of her and arranged on the floor in a glistening anatomy display. Lungs, stomach, liver. David was horrified that he could recognize them. Two small bronze statuettes had been forced up between her legs; the agony of that alone must have been crucifying.

  ‘Oh God,’ was all he could manage to say. He turned around, and walked with dragging feet back to the kitchen. He stood shaking all over, trying to keep his sanity together. He knew that they had killed her so horribly not to punish her, but to warn him. Whatever GRINGO was, somebody wanted it kept fatally silent, and this was what would happen to anybody who showed an interest.

  He looked at the shopping; at the salad that would never be made; at the Cornish rock hens that would never be eaten. All the time he had been walking up and down the aisles of that supermarket, feeling like a husband again, Esther had been tortured and bound up and then disembowelled. He had no doubt at all that she had still been alive when they had cut her open. They had probably spread her insides around in front of her, as she lay dying. He had seen photographs of that kind of killing before, when he was sitting on Congressional committees on organized crime.

  Quite deliberately, he went to the sink and vomited. Then, with tears in his eyes, he drank a large glass of water, wiped his mouth, and went to the telephone’. He picked it up, and dialled his own answering service, at home in Connecticut. ‘This is David Daniels… when you hear the tone, please leave your name and your number and I’ll call you back as soon as I can.…’

  After the beep, David said, ‘I know you’re listening. I’ve been here and I’ve seen what you’ve done to Esther. Let me tell you that you don’t frighten me. You’re animals, and I’m not frightened of animals. You can look for me wherever you like, you won’t find me, not now. I’m going to disappear right off the face of the earth, but I’m going to make sure that everybody gets to know what you’ve done. Press, television, everybody. You’re going to regret this. You’re going to regret this so damned much. Because one day, my friends. I’m going to come after you, just the same way you came after Esther, and I’m going to spread your guts for public display. You hear me? I’m going to put you through hell.’