The Tightrope Men / The Enemy
The Tightrope Men / The Enemy
Desmond Bagley
Double action thrillers by the classic adventure writer set in Norway, Finland and Sweden.THE TIGHTROPE MENWhen Giles Denison of Hampstead wakes up in an Oslo hotel room and finds the face looking back at him in the mirror is not his own, things could surely get no more bizarre. But it is only the beginning of a hair-raising adventure in which Denison finds himself trapped with no way to escape. One false move and the whole delicately balanced power structure between East and West will come toppling down…THE ENEMYWealthy, respectable George Ashton flees for his life after an acid attack on his daughter. Who is his enemy? Only Malcolm Jaggard, his future son-in-law, can guess, after seeing Ashton's top secret government file. In a desperate manhunt, Jaggard pits himself against the KGB and stalks Ashton to the silent, wintry forests of Sweden. But his search for the enemy has barely begun…Includes a unique bonus - Desmond Bagley's pen portrait, written for the original publication of The Tightrope Men.
DESMOND BAGLEY
The Tightrope Men
AND
The Enemy
COPYRIGHT (#ulink_f0603f1d-a40e-57ae-b749-684fb707f898)
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Harper
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by Collins 1973
Copyright © Brockhurst Publications 1973, 1977
Desmond Bagley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication
Source ISBN: 9780007304752
Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2013 ISBN: 9780007347698
Version: 2018-10-12
CONTENTS
Cover (#u3b558761-5d05-55c0-89d5-12e4763078ab)
Title Page (#ua21ab7f6-8142-5005-bfc0-62ea44929529)
Copyright (#u9c418278-4fe2-5010-8939-2083a86210a8)
The Tightrope Men (#u20dec09b-777f-5aab-8bf8-716cf0e404c2)
Praise (#u5a493720-5125-5ef5-be14-6c31b429d98f)
Dedication (#ue0d167a4-47ab-568e-a7da-63a04e7f2b60)
Epigraph (#u5db4eced-b467-53ac-ac47-1bfa1d005bd2)
One (#u204d12aa-8a8f-56f0-8402-03955693e44b)
Two (#u32d73367-938a-53df-8487-d796a5f35764)
Three (#ud50716d9-9845-5fa8-ab9c-aee4fe83a082)
Four (#udca58156-0e2a-5abd-bab1-fc2fb8bcd693)
Five (#u6c054d41-5b8c-50e4-b6b9-36de3b6f8c71)
Six (#u6c693d1d-a04a-523a-b072-4ff7250f0575)
Seven (#u8cad4961-405b-546c-ac20-aa6f6fa4c548)
Eight (#u130ed72a-7384-5809-874f-72e94f6147c2)
Nine (#uf45a1eb1-d77e-5ebd-82da-32c634072f00)
Ten (#u2588eb59-cf18-5457-a655-106e54d8408c)
Eleven (#u01f9f244-d785-5a85-be1e-c0e849a37692)
Twelve (#u6487b539-188c-50fb-8560-d493df7cbaf9)
Thirteen (#u861353ab-a3da-5dcf-bc35-6eec07c983cc)
Fourteen (#u85bc84c5-064e-5570-85ef-dd479d7a1669)
Fifteen (#u9cfca494-b6a8-5703-94a5-5f0eba209758)
Sixteen (#u8d677c80-4a5b-530f-acbd-5550886d82f8)
Seventeen (#ue45a9126-a3e3-5cb0-968a-dbfcd9bf060c)
Eighteen (#u566049f9-8392-5d54-80bd-f16cb6c60fbb)
Nineteen (#u61190ee3-9851-51d2-aa96-6220bfb3edae)
Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Forty (#litres_trial_promo)
The Enemy (#litres_trial_promo)
Praise (#litres_trial_promo)
Dedication (#litres_trial_promo)
One (#litres_trial_promo)
Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Forty (#litres_trial_promo)
‘Desmond Bagley’ (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
By the Same Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
THE TIGHTROPE MEN (#ulink_fc3f746d-ed3e-513e-a931-7880b219df3a)
PRAISE (#ulink_ca5ffa5a-277c-545c-82cf-5622714e1bda)
‘I’ve read all Bagley’s books and he’s marvellous, the best.’
ALISTAIR MACLEAN
‘Sizzling adventure.’
Evening Standard
‘Bagley has become a master of the genre – a thriller writer of intelligence and originality.’
Sunday Times
‘Compulsively readable.’
Guardian
‘From word one, you’re off. Bagley’s one of the best.’
The Times
‘The best adventure stories I have read for years.’
Daily Mirror
‘Bagley has no equal at this sort of thing.’
Sunday Mirror
‘Tense, heroic, chastening … a thumping good story.’
Sunday Express
‘The detail is immaculately researched – the action has the skill to grab your heart or your bowels.’
Daily Mirror
‘Bagley in top form.’
Evening Standard
‘Bagley is a master story-teller.’
Daily Mirror
DEDICATION (#ulink_8686052a-0e8b-5db0-90d3-e6ccd5bab8bc)
To Ray Poynton and all his team.
Fons et Origo,
He the one and I the other.
EPIGRAPH (#ulink_6b7710fe-8da1-541f-87f0-88ac6f06045d)
You may reasonably expect a man to walk a tightrope safely for ten minutes; it would be unreasonable to do so without accident for two hundred years.
Bertrand Russell
ONE (#ulink_3f974baf-d639-5ec9-8a6f-edf566e295d5)
Giles Denison lay asleep. He lay on his back with his right arm held crooked across his forehead with the hand lightly clenched into a fist, giving him a curiously defensive appearance as of one who wards off a blow. His breathing was even and shallow but it deepened a little as he came into consciousness in that everyday miracle of the reintegration of the psyche after the little death of sleep.
There was a movement of eyes behind closed lids and he sighed, bringing his arm down and turning over on to his side to snuggle deeper into the bedclothes. After a few moments the eyelids flickered and drew back and he stared uncomprehendingly at the blank wall next to the bed. He sighed again, filling his lungs with air, and then leisurely drew forth his arm and looked at his wristwatch.
It was exactly twelve o’clock.
He frowned and shook the watch, then held it to his ear. A steady tick told him it was working and another glance at the dial showed the sweep second hand jerking smoothly on its circular course.
Suddenly – convulsively – he sat up in bed and stared at the watch. It was not the time – midday or midnight – that now perturbed him, but the realization that this was not his watch. He normally wore a fifteen-year-old Omega, a present from his father on his twenty-first birthday, but this was a sleek Patek Philippe, gleaming gold, with a plain leather strap instead of the flexible metal band he was accustomed to.
A furrow creased his forehead as he stroked the dial of the watch with his forefinger and then, as he raised his eyes to look about the room, he received another shock. He had never been in the room before.
He became aware that his heart thumped in his chest and he raised his hand to feel the coolness of silk against his fingers. He looked down and saw the pyjamas. Habitually he slept peeled to the skin; pyjamas constricted him and he had once said that he never saw the sense in getting dressed to go to bed.
Denison was still half asleep and his first impulse was to lie down and wait for the dream to be over so that he could wake up again in his own bed, but a pressing necessity of nature was suddenly upon him and he had to go to the bathroom. He shook his head irritably and threw aside the bedclothes – not the sheets and blankets to which he was accustomed but one of those new-fangled quilt objects which fashion had recently imported from the Continent.
He swung his legs out of the bed and sat up, looking down at the pyjamas again. I’m in hospital, he thought suddenly; I must have had an accident. Recollection told him otherwise. He had gone to bed in his own flat in Hampstead in the normal way, after perhaps a couple of drinks too many the previous evening. Those extra couple of drinks had become a habit after Beth died.
His fingers caressed the softness of the silk. Not a hospital, he decided; these were not National Health issue – not with an embroidered monogram on the pocket. He twisted his head to see the letters but the embroidery was complex and the monogram upside down and he could not make it out.
He stood up and looked about the room and knew immediately he was in a hotel. There were expensive-looking suitcases and in no other place but a hotel room could you find special racks on which to put them. He walked three paces and stroked the fine-grained leather which had hardly a scuff mark. The initials on the side of the suitcase were plain and unmonogrammed – H.F.M.
His head throbbed with the beginning of a headache – the legacy of those extra couple of drinks – and his mouth was parched. He glanced around the room and noted the unrumpled companion bed, the jacket hanging tidily on the back of a chair and the scatter of personal possessions on the dressing-table. He was about to cross to the dressing-table when the pressure in his bladder became intolerable and he knew he had to find a bathroom.
He turned and stumbled into the small hall off the bedroom. One side was panelled in wood and he swung a door open to find a wardrobe full of hung clothes. He turned again and found a door on the other side which opened into darkness. He fumbled for a switch, found it, and light sprang up in a white-tiled bathroom.
While he was relieving himself his mind worried about the electric switch, wondering what was strange about it, and then he realized that it was reversed – an upward movement to turn on the light instead of the more normal down pressure.
He flushed the toilet and turned to the hand basin seeking water. Two glasses stood on a shelf, wrapped in translucent paper. He took one down, ripped off the paper and, filling it with water from the green-topped tap, he drank thirstily. Up to this moment he had been awake for, perhaps, three minutes.
He put down the glass and rubbed his left eye which was sore. Then he looked into the mirror above the basin and, for the first time in his life, experienced sheer terror.
TWO (#ulink_dad16438-df61-572c-a030-b245fbfa19da)
When Alice went through the Looking Glass the flowers talked to her and she evinced nothing but a mild surprise; but a psychologist once observed, ‘If a flower spoke to a man, that man would know terror.’
So it was with Giles Denison. After seeing the impossible in the bathroom mirror he turned and vomited into the toilet bowl, but his laboured retchings brought up nothing but a thin mucus. Panting with his efforts, he looked into the mirror again – and reason left him.
When he became self-aware he found himself prone on the bed, his hands shaped into claws which dug into the pillow. A single sentence was drumming through his mind with mechanical persistence. ‘I am Giles Denison! I am Giles Denison! I AM Giles Denison! I am GILES DENISON!’
Presently his heavy breathing quieted and he was able to think beyond that reiterated statement of identity. With his head sideways on the pillow he spoke aloud, gathering reassurance from the familiar sound of his own voice. In a slurred tone which gradually became firmer he said, ‘I am Giles Denison. I am thirty-six years old. I went to bed last night in my own home. I was a bit cut, that’s true, but not so drunk as to be incapable. I remember going to bed – it was just after midnight.’
He frowned, then said, ‘I’ve been hammering the bottle a bit lately, but I’m not an alcoholic – so this isn’t the DTs. Then what is it?’ His left hand moved up to stroke his cheek. ‘What the hell is this?’
He arose slowly and sat on the edge of the bed, screwing up his nerve to go back into the bathroom as he knew he must. When he stood up he found his whole body trembling and he waited a while until the fit had passed. Then he walked with slow paces into the bathroom to face again the stranger in the mirror.
The face that looked back at him was older – he judged the man to be in his mid-forties. Giles Denison had worn a moustache and a neatly clipped beard – the stranger was clean shaven. Giles Denison had a full head of hair – the stranger’s hair receded at the temples. Denison had no distinguishing marks as called for in passport descriptions – the stranger had an old scar on the left side of his face which passed from the temple across the cheekbone to the corner of the mouth; the left eyelid drooped, whether as a result of the scar or not it was impossible to say. There was also a small portwine birthmark on the angle of the right jaw.
If that had been all perhaps Denison would not have been so frightened, but the fact was that the face was different. Denison had been proud in a non-committal way of his aquiline good looks. Aquiline was the last word to describe the face of the stranger. The face was pudgy, the nose a round, featureless blob, and there was an incipient but perceptible double chin.
Denison opened his mouth to look at the stranger’s teeth and caught the flash of a gold capping on a back molar. He closed both his mouth and his eyes and stood there for a while because the trembling had begun again. When he opened his eyes he kept them averted from the mirror and looked down at his hands which were gripping the edge of the basin. They were different, too; the skin looked older and the nails were shortened to the quick as though the stranger bit them. There was another old cicatrice on the back of the right thumb, and the backs of the forefinger and middle finger were stained with nicotine.
Denison did not smoke.
He turned blindly from the mirror and went back into the bedroom where he sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the blank wall. His mind threatened to retreat to the mere insistence of identity and yammered at him, ‘I AM GILES DENISON!’ and the trembling began again, but with an effort of will he dragged himself back from the edge of that mental precipice and forced himself to think as coherently as he could.
Presently he stood up and went to the window because the street noises forced themselves on his attention in an odd way. He heard an impossible sound, a sound that brought back memories of his childhood. He drew back the curtain and looked into the street to find its origin.
The tramcar was passing just below with the accompanying clangour of a past era of transport. Beyond it, in a dazzle of bright sunshine, were gardens and a bandstand and an array of bright umbrellas over tables where people sat eating and drinking. Beyond the gardens was another street filled with moving traffic.
Another tramcar passed and Denison caught a glimpse of the destination board. It made no sense to him because it seemed to be in a foreign language. There was something else odd about the tramcar and his eyes narrowed as he saw there were two single-deck coaches coupled together. He looked across the street at the fascia boards of the shops and found the words totally meaningless.
His head was aching worse than ever so he dropped the curtain to avoid the bright wash of sunlight and turned into the dimness of the room. He crossed to the dressing-table and looked down at the scatter of objects – a cigarette case, apparently of gold, a smoothly modelled cigarette lighter, a wallet and a note-case, and a handful of loose change.
Denison sat down, switched on the table lamp, and picked up one of the silver coins. The head depicted in profile was that of a fleshy man with a prow of a nose; there was something of the air of a Roman emperor about him. The wording was simple: OLAV.V.R. Denison turned the coin over to find a prancing horse and the inscription: I KRONE. NORGE.
Norway!
Denison began to feel his mind spin again and he bent forward as a sudden stomach cramp hit him. He laid down the coin and held his head in his hands until he felt better. Not a lot better, but marginally so.
When he had recovered enough he took the wallet and went through the pockets quickly, tossing the contents into a heap on the table top. The wallet emptied, he put it aside after noting its fine quality and began to examine the papers. There was an English driving licence in the name of Harold Feltham Meyrick of Lippscott House, near Brackley, Buckinghamshire. Hair prickled at the nape of Denison’s neck as he looked at the signature. It was in his own handwriting. It was not his name but it was his penmanship – of that he was certain.
He stretched out his hand and took a pen, one of a matched set of fountain pen and ballpoint. He looked around for something on which to write, saw nothing, and opened the drawer in front of him where he found a folder containing writing paper and envelopes. He paused for a moment when he saw the letter heading – HOTEL CONTINENTAL, STORTINGS GATA, OSLO.
His hand trembled as the pen approached the paper but he scribbled his signature firmly enough – Giles Denison. He looked at the familiar loops and curlicues and felt immeasurably better, then he wrote another signature – H. F. Meyrick. He took the driving licence and compared it with what he had just written. It confirmed what he already knew; the signature in the driving licence was in his own handwriting.
So were the signatures in a fat book of Cook’s traveller’s cheques. He counted the cheques – nineteen of them at £50 each – £950 in all. If he was indeed Meyrick he was pretty well breeched. His headache grew worse.
There were a dozen engraved visiting cards with Meyrick’s name and address and a fat sheaf of Norwegian currency in the note-case which he did not bother to count. He dropped it on to the desk and held his throbbing head in his hands. In spite of the fact that he had just woken up he felt tired and light-headed. He knew he was in danger of going into psychological retreat again; it would be so easy to curl up on the bed and reject this crazy, impossible thing that had happened to him, taking refuge in sleep with the hope that it would prove to be a dream and that when he woke he would be back in bed in his own flat in Hampstead, a thousand miles away.
He opened the drawer a fraction, put his fingers inside, and then smashed the drawer closed with the heel of his other hand. He gasped with the pain and when he drew his hand from the drawer there were flaring red marks on the backs of his fingers. The pain caused tears to come to his eyes and, as he nursed his hand, he knew this was too real to be a dream.
So if it was not a dream, what was it? He had gone to bed as one person and woken up, in another country, as another. But wait! That was not quite accurate. He had woken up knowing he was Giles Denison – the persona of – Harold Feltham Meyrick was all on the exterior – inside he was still Giles Denison.
He was about to pursue this line of thought when he had another spasm of stomach cramp and suddenly he realized why he felt so weak and tired. He was ravenously hungry. Painfully he stood up and went in to the bathroom where he stared down into the toilet bowl. He had been violently sick but his stomach had been so empty that there was hardly anything to be brought up but a thin, acid digestive juice. And yet the previous evening he had had a full meal. Surely there was something wrong there.
He went back into the bedroom and paused irresolutely by the telephone and then, with a sudden access of determination, picked it up. ‘Give me room service,’ he said. His voice was hoarse and strange in his own ears.
The telephone crackled. ‘Room service,’ it said in accented English.
‘I’d like something to eat,’ said Denison. He glanced at his watch – it was nearly two o’clock. ‘A light lunch.’
‘Open sandwiches?’ suggested the telephone.
‘Something like that,’ said Denison. ‘And a pot of coffee.’
‘Yes, sir. The room number is …?’
Denison did not know. He looked around hastily and saw what must be the room key on a low coffee-table by the window. It was attached to about five pounds of brass on which a number was stamped. ‘Three-sixty,’ he said.
‘Very good, sir.’
Denison was inspired. ‘Can you send up a newspaper?’
‘English or Norwegian, sir?’
‘One of each.’
‘The Times?’
‘That and an equivalent local paper. And I may be in the bathroom when you come up – just leave everything on the table.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Denison put down the telephone with a feeling of relief. He would have to face people some time but he did not feel eager to do so immediately. Certainly he would have to ask a lot of questions, but he wanted time to compose himself. He could not help feeling there would be a lot of trip wires to avoid in the taking over of another personality.
He took the silk Paisley dressing-gown which he found draped over a chair and went into the bathroom, where he was coward enough to hang a towel over the mirror. After fumbling for a moment with unfamiliar plumbing, he drew a bath of hot water, then stripped off the pyjamas. He became aware of the sticking-plaster on his left arm and was about to take it off but he thought better of it, wondering if he really wanted to know what was underneath.
He got into the bath and soaked in the hot water, feeling the heat ease his suddenly aching limbs, and again, he drowsily wondered why he felt so tired after being up only two hours. Presently he heard the door of the suite open and there was a clatter of crockery. The door banged closed and everything was quiet again so he got out of the bath and began to rub himself down.
While sitting on the cork-topped stool he suddenly bent forward and examined his left shin. There was a blue-white scar there, about the size and shape of an orange pip. He remembered when that had happened; it was when he was eight years old and had fallen off his first bicycle.
He raised his head and laughed aloud, feeling much better. He had remembered that as Giles Denison and that little scar was a part of his body that did not belong to Mr Harold Blasted Feltham Bloody Meyrick.
THREE (#ulink_c0df6008-93e3-5b6d-aa61-a17479abac55)
The Norwegian idea of a light lunch was an enormous tray filled with a variety of edible goodies which Denison surveyed with satisfaction before plunging in. The discovery of the scar had cheered him immensely and had even emboldened him to shave Meyrick’s face. Meyrick was old-fashioned enough to use a safety-razor and a silver-mounted badger-hair brush instead of an electric shaver and Denison had had some difficulty in guiding the blade over unfamiliar contours and had cut himself – or Meyrick – twice. And so, when he picked up the newspapers, his face was adorned with two bloody patches of toilet paper.
The London Times and the Norwegian Aftenposten both had the same date – July 9 – and Denison went very still, a piece of herring on rye bread poised in mid-air. His last memory as Giles Denison had been going to bed just after midnight on July 1 – no, it would be July 2 if it was after midnight.
Somewhere he had lost a week.
He put his hand to his arm and felt the sticking-plaster. Someone had been doing things to him. He did not know who and he did not know why but, by God, he was going to find out and someone was going to pay dearly. While shaving he had examined his face closely. The scar on his left cheek was there all right, the remnant of an old wound, but it did not feel like a scar when he touched it. Still, no matter how hard he rubbed it would not come off, so it was not merely an example of clever theatrical make-up. The same applied to the birthmark on the right jaw.
There was something else odd about his nose and his cheeks and that double chin. They had a rubbery feel about them. Not ever having had any excess fat on his body he did not know whether this was normal or not. And, again, Meyrick’s face had grown a little stubble of hair which he had shaved off, but the bald temples were smooth which meant that whoever had lifted his hairline had not done it by shaving.
The only part of his face Denison recognized were his eyes – those had not changed; they were still the same grey-green eyes he had seen every morning in the mirror. But the expression was different because of the droop of the left eyelid. There was a slight soreness in the outer corner of that eye which aroused his suspicions but he could see nothing but a tiny inflamed spot which could have been natural.
As he ate voraciously he glanced through The Times. The world still seemed to be wobbling on its political axis as unsteadily as ever and nothing had changed, so he tossed the newspaper aside and gave himself up to thought over a steaming cup of black coffee. What could be the motive for spiriting a man from his own bed, transforming him bodily, giving him a new personality and dumping him in a luxury hotel in the capital of Norway?
No answer.
The meal had invigorated him and he felt like moving and not sitting. He did not yet feel up to encountering people so he compromised by going through Meyrick’s possessions. He opened the wardrobe and in one of the drawers, underneath a pile of underwear, he found a large travelling wallet. Taking it to the dressing-table he unzipped it and went through the contents.
The first thing to catch his eyes was a British passport. He opened it to find the description of the holder was filled out in his own handwriting as was Meyrick’s signature underneath. The face that looked out of the photograph on the opposite page was that of Meyrick, who was described as a civil servant. Whoever had thought up this lark had been thorough about it.
He flipped through the pages and found only one stamped entry and his brow wrinkled as he studied it. Sverige? Would that be Sweden? If so he had arrived at a place called Arlanda in Sweden on a date he could not tell because the stamping was blurred. Turning to the back of the passport he found that the sum of £1,500 had been issued a month earlier. Since the maximum travel allowance for a tourist was £300 it would seem that H. F. Meyrick was operating on a businessman’s allowance.
At the bottom of a pocket in the wallet he found an American Express credit card, complete with the ubiquitous fake signature. He looked at it pensively, flicking it with his fingernail. With this he could draw money or traveller’s cheques anywhere; he could use it to buy an airline ticket to Australia if he felt the urge to emigrate suddenly. It represented complete and unlicensed freedom unless and until someone put a stopper on it at head office.
He transferred it to the small personal wallet along with the driving licence. It would be better to keep that little bit of plastic available in case of need.
Meyrick had an extensive wardrobe; casual clothing, lounge suits and even a dinner-jacket with accessories. Denison investigated a small box and found it contained personal jewellery – studs, tiepins and a couple of rings – and he realized he probably held a thousand pounds’ worth of gold in his hand. The Patek Philippe watch on his wrist would cost £500 if it cost a penny. H. F. Meyrick was a wealthy man, so what kind of a civil servant did that make him?
Denison decided to get dressed. It was a sunny day so he chose casual trousers and a sports coat. The clothing fitted him as though made to measure. He looked at himself in the full-length mirror built into the wardrobe door, studiously ignoring the face on top of the body, and thought crazily that it, too, had probably been made to measure. The world began to spin again, but he remembered the small scar on his shin that belonged to Denison and that helped him to recover.
He put his personal possessions into his pockets and headed for the door, key in hand. As the door swung open a card which had been hung on the outer handle fell to the floor. He picked it up and read: VENNLIGST IKKE FORSTYRR – PLEASE DO NOT DISTURB. He was thoughtful as he hung it on the hook inside the door before locking the room; he would give a lot to know who had hung out that sign.
He went down in the lift with a couple of American blue-rinsed matrons who chattered to each other in a mid-West twang. ‘Say, have you been out to Vigeland Park? All those statues – I didn’t know where to look.’ The lift stopped and the doors slid open with a soft hiss, and the American ladies bustled out intent on sightseeing.
Denison followed them diffidently into the hotel lobby and stood by the lifts for a while, trying to get his bearings, doing his best to appear nonchalantly casual while he took in the scene.
‘Mr Meyrick … Mr Meyrick, sir!’
He turned his head and saw the porter at the desk smiling at him. Licking lips that had suddenly gone dry he walked over. ‘Yes?’
‘Would you mind signing this, sir? The check for the meal in your room. Just a formality.’
Denison looked at the proffered pen and laid down the room key. He took the pen and scribbled firmly ‘H. F. Meyrick’ and pushed the slip across the counter. The porter was hanging the key on the rack but he turned and spoke to Denison before he could slip away. ‘The night porter put your car away, sir. Here is the key.’
He held out a key with a tag on it and Denison extended his hand to take it. He glanced at the tag and saw the name, Hertz, and a car number. He cleared his throat. ‘Thank you.’
‘You sound as though you have a cold coming on,’ said the porter.
Denison took a chance. ‘Why do you think that?’
‘Your voice sounds different.’
‘Yes, I do feel a bit chesty,’ said Denison.
The porter smiled. ‘Too much night air, perhaps.’
Denison took another chance. ‘What time did I get in last night?’
‘This morning, sir. The night porter said it was about three o’clock.’ The porter offered Denison a man-of-the-world smile. ‘I wasn’t surprised when you slept in this morning.’
No, thought Denison; but I was! He was growing bolder as he gained confidence. ‘Can you tell me something? I was having a discussion with a friend about how long I’ve been here in Oslo and, for the life of me, I can’t remember the exact day I booked in here. Could you check it for me?’
‘Certainly, sir.’ The porter moved away and began to run through cards in a file. Denison looked at the car key. It was thoughtful of Hertz to put the car number on the tag; he might even be able to recognize it when he saw it. It was also thoughtful of the night porter to put the car away – but where the hell had he put it?
The porter returned. ‘You checked in on the eighteenth of June, sir. Exactly three weeks ago.’
The butterflies in Denison’s stomach collided. ‘Thank you,’ he said mechanically, and moved away from the desk and across the lobby. An arrow pointed the direction to the bar and he glanced sideways and saw a dark, cool cavern with a few drinkers, solitary or in couples. It looked quiet and he desperately wanted to think, so he went in.
When the barman came up, he said, ‘A beer, please.’
‘Export, sir?’
Denison nodded absently. June 18. He had reckoned he had lost a week so how the devil could he have booked into the Hotel Continental in Oslo three weeks earlier? How the hell could he have been in two places at the same time?
The barman returned, poured the beer into a glass, and went away. Denison tried to figure where he had been on June 18 and found it difficult. Three weeks was a long time. Where were you at 6.17 on the evening of June 18? No wonder people found it difficult to establish alibis. He found it extraordinarily difficult to focus his thoughts; they flicked about, skittering here and there wildly out of control. When did you last see your father? Nuts!
A vagrant thought popped to the surface of his consciousness. Edinburgh! He had been to Edinburgh On the 17th and the 18th he had taken off as a reward for hard work. There had been a leisurely morning and he had played golf in the afternoon; he had gone to the cinema in the evening and had dined late in Soho, getting back to Hampstead fairly late.
He – as Giles Denison – had dined in Soho at about the same time as he – as Harold Feltham Meyrick – had dined in Oslo. Where was the sense of that?
He was aware that he was looking at bubbles rising in amber liquid and that he had not touched his beer. He lifted the glass and drank; it was cold and refreshing.
He had two things going for him – two things that kept him sane. One – Giles Denison’s scar on H. F. Meyrick’s shin – and two – the change in the timbre of Meyrick’s voice as recognized by the hotel porter. And what did that imply? Obviously that there were two Meyricks; one who had booked in on June 18, and another – himself – who had just been planted. Never mind why and never mind how. Just accept the fact that it was done.
He drank some more beer and rested his chin in his hand, feeling the unaccustomed flab of his jowl. He had lost a week of his life. Could so much plastic surgery be done in a week? He added that to the list of things to be checked on.
And what to do? He could go to the British Embassy and tell his story. Mentally he ran through the scenario.
‘What can we do for you, Mr Meyrick?’
‘Well the fact is I’m not Meyrick – whoever he is. My name is Giles Denison and I’ve been kidnapped from London, my face changed, and dumped into an Oslo hotel with a hell of a lot of money and an unlimited credit account. Can you help me?’
‘Certainly, Mr Meyrick. Miss Smith, will you ring for a doctor?’
‘My God!’ said Denison aloud. ‘I’d end up in the loony-bin.’
The barman cocked his head and came over. ‘You wish something, sir?’
‘Just to pay,’ said Denison, finishing his beer.
He paid from the loose change in his pocket and left the bar. In the lobby he spotted a sign saying GARAGE, so he went through a door and down a flight of stairs to emerge into a basement car park. He checked the number on the Hertz key and walked along the first row of cars. It was right at the end – a big black Mercedes. He unlocked the door.
The first thing he saw was the doll on the driver’s seat, a most curious object made of crudely carved wood and rope. The body was formed of rope twisted into a spiral and coming out in the form of a tail. His feet were but roughly indicated and the head was a round knob with a peg nose. The eyes and a mouth twisted to one side had been inked on to the wood, and the hair was of rope teased out into separate strands. It was a strange and somehow repulsive little figure.
He picked it up and discovered a piece of paper underneath it. He unfolded the deckle-edged note-paper and read the scrawled handwriting: Your Drammen Dolly awaits you at Spiraltoppen. Early morning, July 10.
He frowned. July 10 was next day, but where was Spiraltoppen and who – or what – was a Drammen Dolly? He looked at the ugly little doll. It had been lying on the driver’s seat as though it had been deliberately left for him to find. He tossed it in his hand a couple of times and then thrust it into his pocket. It made an unsightly bulge, but what did he care? It was not his jacket. The note he put into his wallet.
The car was almost new, with just over 500 kilometres on the clock. He found a sheaf of papers relating to the car hire; it had been rented five days earlier, a fact which was singularly devoid of informative content. There was nothing else to be found.
He got out of the car, locked it, and left the garage by the car entrance, emerging on to a street behind the hotel. It was a little bewildering for him; the traffic drove on the wrong side of the road, the street and shop signs were indecipherable and his command of Norwegian was minimal, being restricted to one word – skal – which, while being useful in a cheery sort of way, was not going to be of much use for the more practical things of life.
What he needed was information and he found it on the corner of the street in the form of a bookshop. He went inside and found an array of maps from which he selected a map of central Oslo, one of Greater Oslo, and a motoring map of Southern Norway. To these he added a guide to the city and paid out of the slab of Norwegian currency in Meyrick’s wallet. He made a mental note to count that money as soon as he had privacy.
He left the shop intending to go back to the hotel where he could study the maps and orient himself. He paused on the pavement and rubbernecked at the corner of a building where one would normally expect to find a street name – and there it was – Roald Amundsens Gata.
‘Harry!’
He turned to go in the direction of the hotel but paused as he felt a hand on his arm. ‘Harry Meyrick!’ There was a note of anger in the voice. She was a green-eyed redhead of about thirty and she was flying alarm flags – her lips were compressed and pink spots glowed in her cheeks. ‘I’m not used to being stood up,’ she said. ‘Where were you this morning?’
Momentarily he was nonplussed but remembered in time what the hotel porter had thought about his voice. ‘I wasn’t feeling well,’ he managed to get out. ‘I was in bed.’
‘There’s a thing called a telephone,’ she said angrily. ‘Alexander Graham Bell invented it – remember?’
‘I was knocked out by sleeping pills,’ he protested. With a small portion of his mind he noted that this was probably a true statement. ‘Perhaps I overdid it.’
Her expression changed. ‘You do sound a bit glued-up,’ she admitted. ‘Maybe I’ll forgive you.’ There was a faint American undertone to her English. ‘It will cost you a drink, darling.’
‘In the hotel?’ he suggested.
‘It’s too nice a day to be inside. We’ll go into the Studenterlunden.’ She waved her arm past a passing articulated tramcar towards the gay umbrellas in the gardens on the other side of the street.
Denison felt trapped as he escorted her across the street, but he also realized that if he was to learn anything about Meyrick then this was too good a chance to pass up. He had once been accosted in the street by a woman who obviously knew him but he did not have the faintest idea of who she was. There is a point of no return in that type of conversation after which one cannot, in decency, admit ignorance. On that occasion Denison had fumbled it, had suffered half an hour of devious conversation, and they had parted amicably without him finding out who she was. He still did not know. Grimly he thought that it was good practice for today’s exercise.
As they crossed the street she said, ‘I saw Jack Kidder this morning. He was asking about you.’
‘How is he?’
She laughed. ‘Fine, as always. You know Jack.’
‘Of course,’ said Denison deadpan. ‘Good old Jack.’
They went into the outdoor café and found an empty table with difficulty. Under other circumstances Denison would have found it pleasant to have a drink with a pretty woman in surroundings like this, but his mind was beleaguered by his present problems. They sat down and he put his parcel of maps on the table.
One of them slipped out of the packet and his main problem prodded at it with a well-manicured forefinger. ‘What are these?’
‘Maps,’ said Denison succinctly.
‘Maps of where?’
‘Of the city.’
‘Oslo!’ She seemed amused. ‘Why do you want maps of Oslo? Isn’t it your boast that you know Oslo better than London?’
‘They’re for a friend.’
Denison chalked up a mental note. Meyrick knows Oslo well; probably a frequent visitor. Steer clear of local conditions or gossip. Might run into more problems like this.
‘Oh!’ She appeared to lose interest.
Denison realized he was faced with a peculiar difficulty. He did not know this woman’s name and, as people do not commonly refer to themselves by name in conversation, he did not see how he was going to get it, short of somehow prying into her handbag and looking for identification.
‘Give me a cigarette, darling,’ she said.
He patted his pockets and found he had left the cigarette case and lighter in the room. Not being a smoker it had not occurred to him to put them in his pocket along with the rest of Meyrick’s personal gear. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t have any with me.’
‘My!’ she said. ‘Don’t tell me the great Professor Meyrick has stopped smoking. Now I will believe in cancer.’
Professor!
He used the pretext of illness again. ‘The one I tried this morning tasted like straw. Maybe I will stop smoking.’ He held his hand over the table. ‘Look at those nicotine stains. Imagine what my lungs must be like.’
She shook her head in mock sorrow. ‘It’s like pulling down a national monument. To imagine Harry Meyrick without a cigarette is like trying to imagine Paris without the Eiffel Tower.’
A Nordic waitress came to the table; she looked rather like Jeanette MacDonald dressed for an appearance in White Horse Inn. Denison raised his eyebrows at his companion. ‘What will you have?’
‘The usual,’ she said indifferently, delving into her handbag.
He took refuge in a paroxysm of coughing pulling out his handkerchief and only emerging when he heard her giving the order. He waited until the waitress left before putting away the handkerchief. The woman opposite him said, ‘Harry, that’s a really bad cough. I’m not surprised you’re thinking of giving up the cancer sticks. Are you feeling all right, darling? Maybe you’d be better off in bed, after all.’
‘I’m all right,’ he said.
‘Are you sure?’ she asked solicitously.
‘Perfectly sure.’
‘Spoken like the old Professor Meyrick,’ she said mockingly. ‘Always sure of everything.’
‘Don’t call me Professor,’ he said testily. It was a safe enough thing to say regardless of whether Meyrick was really a professor or whether she was pulling his leg in a heavy-handed manner. The British have never been keen on the over-use of professional titles. And it might provoke her into dropping useful information.
All he got was a light and inconsequential, ‘When on the Continent do as the Continentals do.’
He went on the attack. ‘I don’t like it.’
‘You’re so British, Harry.’ He thought he detected a cutting edge to her voice. ‘But then, of course, you would be.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Oh, come off it. There’s nobody more British than an outsider who has bored his way in. Where were you born, Harry? Somewhere in Mittel Europa?’ She suddenly looked a little ashamed. ‘I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have said that. I’m being bitchy, but you’re behaving a bit oddly, too.’
‘The effect of the pills. Barbiturates have never agreed with me. I have a headache.’
She opened her handbag. ‘I have aspirin.’
The waitress, Valkyrie-like, bore down on them. Denison looked at the bottles on the tray, and said, ‘I doubt if aspirin goes with beer.’ That was the last thing he would have thought of as ‘the usual’; she did not look the beery type.
She shrugged and closed the bag with a click. ‘Please yourself.’
The waitress put down two glasses, two bottles of beer and a packet of cigarettes, said something rapid and incomprehensible, and waited expectantly. Denison took out his wallet and selected a 100-kroner note. Surely two beers and a packet of cigarettes could not cost more than a hundred kroner. My God, he did not even know the value of the currency! This was like walking through a minefield blindfolded.
He was relieved when the waitress made no comment but made change from a leather bag concealed under her apron. He laid the money on the table intending to check it surreptitiously. The redhead said, ‘You’ve no need to buy my cigarettes, Harry.’
He smiled at her. ‘Be my guest,’ he said, and stretched out his hand to pour her beer.
‘You’ve given it up yourself but you’re quite prepared to pay for other people’s poison.’ She laughed. ‘Not a very moral attitude.’
‘I’m not a moral philosopher,’ he said, hoping it was true.
‘No, you’re not,’ she agreed. ‘I’ve always wondered where you stood in that general direction. What would you call yourself, Harry? Atheist? Agnostic? Humanist?’
At last he was getting something of the quality of Meyrick. Those were questions but they were leading questions, and he was quite prepared to discuss philosophy with her – a nice safe subject. ‘Not an atheist,’ he said. ‘It’s always seemed to me that to believe in the non-existence of something is somewhat harder than to believe in its existence. I’d put myself down as an agnostic – one of the “don’t know” majority. And that doesn’t conflict with humanism.’
He fingered the notes and coins on the table, counted them mentally, subtracted the price of two beers based on what he had paid for a beer in the hotel, and arrived at the price of a packet of cigarettes. Roughly, that is. He had an idea that the price of a beer in a luxury hotel would be far higher than in an open-air café.
‘I went to church last Sunday,’ she said pensively. ‘To the English church – you know – the one on Møllergata.’ He nodded as though he did know. ‘I didn’t get much out of it. I think next time I’ll try the American church.’ She frowned. ‘Where is the American church, Harry?’
He had to say something, so he took a chance. ‘Isn’t it near the Embassy?’
Her brow cleared. ‘Of course. Between Bygdøy Alle and Drammens Veien. It’s funny, isn’t it? The American church being practically next door to the British Embassy. You’d expect it to be near the American Embassy.’
He gulped. ‘Yes, you would,’ he said, and forbore to mention that that was what he had meant. Even a quasi-theological conversation was strewn with pitfalls. He had to get out of this before he really dropped a clanger.
And an alarming suspicion had just sprung to mind, fully armed and spiky. Whoever had planted him in that hotel room and provided him with money and the means to provide all the necessities of life – and a lot of the luxuries, too – was unlikely to leave him unobserved. Someone would be keeping tabs on him, otherwise the whole operation was a nonsense. Could it be this redhead who apparently had qualms about her immortal soul? What could be better than to plant someone right next to him for closer observation?
She opened the packet of cigarettes and offered him one. ‘You’re sure you won’t?’
He shook his head. ‘Quite sure.’
‘It must be marvellous to have will power.’
He wanted peace and not this continuous exploration of a maze where every corner turned could be more dangerous than the last. He started to cough again, and dragged his handkerchief from his pocket. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said in a muffled voice. ‘I think you’re right; I’d be better off in bed. Do you mind if I leave you?’
‘Of course not.’ Her voice was filled with concern. ‘Do you want a doctor?’
‘That’s not necessary,’ he said. ‘I’ll be all right tomorrow – I know how these turns take me.’ He stood up and she also rose. ‘Don’t bother to come with me. The hotel is only across the road.’
He picked up the packet and thrust the maps back into it, and put the handkerchief into his pocket. She looked down at his feet. ‘You’ve dropped something,’ she said, and stooped to pick it up. ‘Why, it’s a Spiralen Doll.’
‘A what?’ he asked incautiously. It must have been pulled from his pocket when he took out the handkerchief.
She regarded him oddly. ‘You pointed these out at the Spiralen when we were there last week. You laughed at them and called them tourist junk. Don’t you remember?’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘It’s just this damned headache.’
She laughed. ‘I didn’t expect to see you carrying one. You didn’t buy this when we were there – where did you get it?’
He told the truth. ‘I found it in the car I hired.’
‘You can’t trust anyone to do a good job these days,’ she said, smiling. ‘Those cars are supposed to be cleaned and checked.’ She held it out. ‘Do you want it?’
‘I may be a bit light-headed,’ he said, ‘but I think I do.’ He took it from her. ‘I’ll be going now.’
‘Have a hot toddy and a good night’s sleep,’ she advised. ‘And ring me as soon as you’re better.’
That would be difficult, to say the least, with neither telephone number nor name. ‘Why don’t you give me a ring tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll be well enough to have dinner. I promise not to stand you up again.’
‘I’ll ring you tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Promise,’ he insisted, not wanting to lose her.
‘Promise.’
He put the rope doll into his pocket and left her with a wave, and went out of the garden, across the road and into the hotel, feeling relieved that he was well out of a difficult situation. Information, he thought, as he walked across the hotel lobby; that’s what I need – I’m hamstrung without it.
He paused at the porter’s desk and the porter looked up with a quick smile. ‘Your key, sir?’ He swung around and unhooked it.
On impulse Denison held out the doll. ‘What’s that?’
The porter’s smile broadened. ‘That’s a Spiralen Doll, sir.’
‘Where does it come from?’
‘From the Spiralen, sir – in Drammen. If you’re interested, I have a pamphlet.’
‘I’m very much interested,’ said Denison.
The porter looked through papers on a shelf and came up with a leaflet printed in blue ink. ‘You must be an engineer, sir.’
Denison did not know what the hell Meyrick was. ‘It’s in my general field of interest,’ he said guardedly, took the key and the leaflet, and walked towards the lifts. He did not notice the man who had been hovering behind him and who regarded him speculatively until the lift door closed.
Once in his room Denison tossed the maps and the leaflet on to the dressing-table and picked up the telephone. ‘I’d like to make a long distance call, please – to England.’ He took out his wallet.
‘What is the number, sir?’
‘There’s a little difficulty about that. I don’t have a number – only an address.’ He opened the wallet with one hand and extracted one of Meyrick’s cards.
The telephonist was dubious. ‘That may take some time, sir.’
‘It doesn’t matter – I’ll be in my room for the rest of the day.’
‘What is the address sir?’
Denison said clearly, ‘Lippscott House, near Brackley, Buckinghamshire, England.’ He repeated it three times to make sure it had got across.
‘And the name?’
Denison opened his mouth and then closed it, having suddenly acquired a dazed look. He would appear to be a damned fool if he gave the name of Meyrick – no one in his right mind rings up himself, especially after having admitted he did not know his own telephone number. He swallowed, and said shortly, ‘The name is not known.’
The telephone sighed in his ear. ‘I’ll do my best, sir.’
Denison put down the telephone and settled in a chair to find out about the Spiralen. The front of the leaflet was headed: DRAMMEN. There was an illustration of a Spiralen Doll which did not look any better for being printed in blue. The leaflet was in four languages.
The Spiralen was described as being ‘a truly unique attraction, as well as a superb piece of engineering.’ Apparently there had been a quarry at the foot of Bragernesasen, a hill near Drammen, which had become an eyesore until the City Fathers decided to do something about it. Instead of quarrying the face of the hill the operation had been extended into the interior.
A tunnel had been driven into the hill, thirty feet wide, fifteen feet high and a mile long. But not in a straight line. It turned back on itself six complete times in a spiral drilled into the mountain, climbing five hundred feet until it came out on top of Bragernesasen where the Spiraltoppen Restaurant was open all the year round. The views were said to be excellent.
Denison picked up the doll; its body was formed of six complete turns of rope. He grinned weakly.
Consultation of the maps revealed that Drammen was a small town forty kilometres west of Oslo. That would be a nice morning drive, and he could get back in the afternoon well in time for any call from the redhead. It was not much to go on, but it was all he had.
He spent the rest of the afternoon searching through Meyrick’s possessions but found nothing that could be said to be a clue. He ordered dinner to be sent to his room because he suspected that the hotel restaurant might be full of unexploded human mines like the redhead he had met, and there was a limit to what he could get away with.
The telephone call came when he was half-way through dinner. There were clicks and crackles and a distant voice said, ‘Dr Meyrick’s residence.’
Doctor!
‘I’d like to speak to Dr Meyrick.’
‘I’m sorry, sir; but Dr Meyrick is not at home.’
‘Have you any idea where I can find him?’
‘He is out of the country at the moment, sir.’
‘Oh! Have you any idea where?’
There was a pause. ‘I believe he is travelling in Scandinavia, sir.’
This was not getting anywhere at all. ‘Who am I speaking to?’
‘This is Andrews – Dr Meyrick’s personal servant. Would you like to leave a message, sir?’
‘Do you recognize my voice, Andrews?’ asked Denison.
A pause. ‘It’s a bad line.’ Another pause. ‘I don’t believe in guessing games on the telephone, sir.’
‘All right,’ said Denison. ‘When you see Dr Meyrick will you tell him that Giles Denison called, and I’ll be getting in touch with him as soon as possible. Got that?’
‘Giles Denison. Yes, Mr Denison.’
‘When is Dr Meyrick expected home?’
‘I really couldn’t say, Mr Denison.’
‘Thank you, Mr Andrews.’
Denison put down the telephone. He felt depressed.
FOUR (#ulink_51bfb147-79be-5d71-8cb8-56cf8273e9fc)
He slept poorly that night. His sleep was plagued with dreams which he did not remember clearly during the few times he was jerked into wakefulness but which he knew were full of monstrous and fearful figures which threatened him. In the early hours of the morning he fell into a heavy sleep which deadened senses and when he woke he felt heavy and listless.
He got up tiredly and twitched aside the window curtain to find that the weather had changed; the sky was a dull grey and the pavements were wet and a fine drizzle filled the air. The outdoor café in the gardens opposite would not be doing much business that day.
He rang down for breakfast and then had a shower, finishing with needle jets of cold water in an attempt to whip some enthusiasm into his suddenly heavy body and, to a degree, he succeeded. When the floor waitress came in with his breakfast he had dressed in trousers and white polo-necked sweater and was combing his hair before the bathroom mirror. Incredibly enough, he was whistling in spite of having Meyrick’s face before him.
The food helped, too, although it was unfamiliar and a long way from an English breakfast. He rejected the raw, marinated herring and settled for a boiled egg, bread and marmalade and coffee. After breakfast he checked the weather again and then selected a jacket and a short topcoat from the wardrobe. He also found a thin, zippered leather satchel into which he put the maps and the Spiralen leaflet which had a street plan of Drammen on the back. Then he went down to the car. It was exactly nine o’clock.
It was not easy getting out of town. The car was bigger and more powerful than those he had been accustomed to driving and he had to keep to what was to him the wrong side of the road in a strange city in early rush-hour traffic. Three times he missed signs and took wrong turnings. The first time he did this he cruised on and got hopelessly lost and had to retrace his path laboriously. Thereafter when he missed a turn he reversed immediately so as not to lose his way again.
He was quite unaware of the man following him in the Swedish Volvo. Denison’s erratic course across the city of Oslo was causing him a lot of trouble, especially when Denison did his quick and unexpected reversals. The man, whose name was Armstrong, swore freely and frequently, and his language became indescribable when the drizzle intensified into a downpour of heavy driving rain.
Denison eventually got out of the centre of the city and on to a six-lane highway, three lanes each way. The windscreen wipers had to work hard to cope with the rain, but it was better when he fiddled with a switch and discovered they had two speeds. Resolutely he stuck to the centre lane, reassured from time to time by the name DRAMMEN which appeared on overhead gantries.
To his left was the sea, the deeply penetrating arm of Oslofjord, but then the road veered away and headed inland. Presently the rain stopped, although no sun appeared, and he even began to enjoy himself, having got command of the unfamiliar car. And suddenly he was in Drammen, where he parked and studied the plan on the back of the leaflet.
In spite of the plan he missed the narrow turning to the right and had to carry on for some way before he found an opportunity to reverse the car, but eventually he drove up to the entrance of the tunnel where he stopped to pay the two-kroner charge.
He put the car into gear and moved forward slowly. At first the tunnel was straight, and then it began to climb, turning to the left. There was dim illumination but he switched on his headlights in the dipped position and saw the reflection from the wetness of the rough stone wall. The gradient was regular, as was the radius of the spiral, and by the time he came to a board marked 1 he had got the hang of it. All he had to do was to keep the wheel at a fixed lock to correspond with the radius of the spiral and grind upwards in low gear.
All the same, it was quite an experience – driving upwards through the middle of a mountain. Just after he passed level 3 a car passed him going downwards and momentarily blinded him, but that was all the trouble he had. He took the precaution of steering nearer to the outer curve and closer to the wall.
Soon after passing level 6 he came out of the tunnel into a dazzle of light and on to level ground. To his left there was a large car park, empty of cars, and beyond it was the roof of a large wooden building constructed in chalet style. He parked as close to the building as he could, and got out of the car and locked it.
The chalet was obviously the Spiraltoppen Restaurant, but it was barely in business. He looked through a glass door and saw two women mopping the floor. It was still very early in the morning. He retreated a few steps and saw a giant Spiralen Doll outside the entrance, a leering figure nearly as big as a man.
He looked about him and saw steps leading down towards the edge of a cliff where there was a low stone wall and a coin-in-the-slot telescope. He walked down the path to where he could get a view of the Drammen Valley. The clouds were lifting and the sun broke through and illuminated the river so far below. The air was crystal clear.
Very pretty, he thought sourly; but what the hell am I doing here? What do I expect to find? Drammen Dolly, where are you?
Perhaps the answer lay in the restaurant. He looked at the view for a long time, made nothing of it from his personal point of view, and then returned to the restaurant where the floor-mopping operation had been completed.
He went inside and sat down, looking around hopefully. It was a curiously ad hoc building, all odd angles and discrepancies as though the architect – if there had been an architect – had radically changed his mind during construction. Presently a waitress came and took his order without displaying much interest in him, and later returned with his coffee. She went away without giving him the secret password, so he sat and sipped the coffee gloomily.
After a while he pulled out the leaflet and studied it. He was on the top of Bragernesasen which was ‘the threshold of the unspoilt country of Drammensmarka, an eldorado for hikers in summer, and skiers in winter, who have the benefit of floodlit trails.’ There might be something there, he thought; so he paid for his coffee and left.
Another car had arrived and stood on the other side of the car park. A man sat behind the wheel reading a newspaper. He glanced across incuriously as the restaurant door slammed behind Denison and then returned to his reading. Denison pulled the topcoat closer about him against the suddenly cold wind and walked away from the cliff towards the unspoilt country of Drammensmarka.
It was a wooded area with tall conifers and equally tall deciduous trees with whitish trunks which he assumed to be birches, although he could have been wrong, botany not being his subject. There was a trail leading away from the car park which appeared to be well trodden. Soon the trees closed around him and, on looking back, the restaurant was out of sight.
The trail forked and, tossing a mental coin, he took the route to the right. After walking for a further ten minutes he stopped and again wondered what the hell he was doing. Just because he had found a crude doll in a car he was walking through a forest on a mountain in Norway. It was bloody ridiculous.
It had been the redhead’s casual theory that the doll had been left in the car by a previous hirer. But what previous hirer? The car was obviously new. The doll had been left in a prominent position and there was the note to go with it with the significant reference to the ‘Drammen Dolly’.
Early morning – that’s what the note had said. But how early was early? Come out, come out, wherever you are, my little Drammen Dolly. Wave your magic wand and take me back to Hampstead.
He turned around and trudged back to the fork in the path and this time took the route to the left. The air was fresh and clean after the rain. Drops of water sparkled prismatically on the leaves as the sun struck them and occasionally, as he passed under a tree, a miniature shower would sprinkle him.
And he saw nothing but trees.
He came to another fork in the trail and stopped, wondering what to do. There was a sound behind him as of a twig breaking and he swung around and stared back along the trail but saw nothing as he peered into the dappled forest, shading his eyes from the sun. He turned away but heard another sound to his right and out of the corner of his eye saw something dark moving very fast among the trees.
Behind him he heard footsteps and whirled around to find himself under savage attack. Almost upon him was a big man, a six-footer with broad shoulders, his right hand uplifted and holding what appeared to be a short club.
Denison was thirty-six, which is no age to indulge in serious fisticuffs. He also led a sedentary life which meant that his wind was not good, although it was better than it might have been because he did not smoke. Yet his reflexes were fast enough. What really saved him, though, was that in his time he had been a middling-good middleweight boxer who had won most of his amateur fights by sheer driving aggression.
The last two days had been frustrating for a man of his aggressive tendencies. He had been in a mist with nothing visible to fight and this had gnawed at him. Now that he had something to fight – someone to fight – his instincts took over.
Which is why, instead of jumping back under the attack, unexpectedly he went in low, blocked the descending arm with his own left arm and sank his right fist into his attacker’s belly just below the sternum. The man’s breath came out of him with a gasp and he doubled up on the ground wheezing and making retching noises.
Denison wasted no time, but ran for it back to the car park, aware that his were not the only feet that made those thudding noises on the trail. He did not waste time by looking back but just put his head down and ran. To his left he was aware of a man bounding down the hill dodging trees and doing his best to cut him off – what was worse, he seemed to be succeeding.
Denison put on an extra burst of speed but it was no use – the man leaped on to the trail about fifteen yards ahead. Denison heard his pursuer pounding behind and knew that if he stopped he would be trapped, so he bored on up the trail without slackening pace.
When the man ahead realized that Denison did not intend to stop a look of surprise came over his face and his hand plucked at his waist and he dropped into a crouch. Sun gleamed off the blade of the knife he held in his right hand. Denison ran full tilt at him and made as to break to the man’s left – the safe side – but at the last minute he sold him the dummy and broke away on the knife side.
He nearly got through unscathed because the man bought it. But at the last moment he lashed out with the knife and Denison felt a hot pain across his flank. Yet he had got past and plunged along the trail with undiminished speed, hoping to God he would not trip over an exposed tree root. There is nothing like being chased by a man with a knife to put wings on the feet.
There were three of them. The big man he had laid out with a blow to the solar plexus would not be good for anything for at least two minutes and probably longer. That left the knifer and the other man who had chased him. Behind he heard cries but ahead he saw the roof of the restaurant just coming in sight over the rise.
His wind was going fast and he knew he could not keep up this sprint for long. He burst out into the car park and headed for his car, thankful there was now firm footing. A car door slammed and he risked a glance to the left and saw the man who had been reading the newspaper in the parked car beginning to run towards him.
He fumbled hastily for his car key and thanked God when it slipped smoothly into the lock. He dived behind the wheel and slammed the door with one hand while stabbing the key at the ignition lock with the other – this time he missed and had to fumble again. The man outside hammered on the window and then tugged at the door handle. Denison held the door closed with straining muscles and brought over his other hand quickly to snap down the door catch.
He had dropped the car key on the floor and groped for it. His lungs were hurting and he gasped for breath, and the pain in his side suddenly sharpened, but somewhere at the back of his mind cool logic told him that he was reasonably safe, that no one could get into a locked car before he took off – always provided he could find that damned key.
His fingers brushed against it and he grabbed it, brought it up, and rammed it into the ignition lock. Cool logic evaporated fast when he saw the man stand back and produce an automatic pistol. Denison frantically pumped his foot on the clutch, slammed into first gear, and took off in a tyre-burning squeal even before he had a finger on the wheel. The car weaved drunkenly across the car park then straightened out and dived into the Spiralen tunnel like a rabbit down a hole.
Denison’s last glimpse of daylight in the rear-view mirror showed him the other car beginning to move with two doors open and his pursuers piling in. That would be the ferret after the rabbit.
It took him about ten seconds, after he hit the curve, to know he was going too fast. The gradient was one in ten and the curve radius only a hundred and fifteen feet, turning away to the right so that he was on the inside. His speed was such that centrifugal force tended to throw the car sideways over the centre line, and if anything was coming up he would surely hit it.
He could be compared to a man on a bobsled going down the Cresta Run – with some important differences. The Cresta Run is designed so that the walls can be climbed; here the walls were of jagged, untrimmed rock and one touch at speed would surely wreck the car. The Cresta Run does not have two-way traffic with a continuous blind corner a mile long, and the competitors are not pursued by men with guns – if they were, more records might be broken.
So Denison reluctantly eased his foot on the accelerator and risked a glance in his mirror. The driver of the car behind was more foolhardy than he and was not worrying about up-traffic. He was barrelling down the centre line and catching up fast. Denison fed more fuel to the engine, twisted the wheel and wondered if he could sustain a sideways drift a mile long.
The walls of the tunnel were a blur and the lights flicked by and he caught sight of an illuminated number 5. Four more circuits to go before the bottom. The car jolted and pitched suddenly and he fought the wheel which had taken on a life of its own. It did it again and he heard a nasty sound from the rear. He was being rammed. There was another sound as sheet metal ripped and the car slewed across the whole width of the tunnel.
He heard – and felt – the crunch as the rear off-side of the car slammed into the opposite wall, but Denison was not particularly worried about the property of the Hertz Company at that moment because he saw the dipped headlights of a vehicle coming up the Spiralen towards him. He juggled madly with wheel, clutch and accelerator and shot off to the other side of the tunnel again, scraping across the front of the tour bus that was coming up. There was a brief vignette of the driver of the bus, his mouth open and his eyes staring, and then he was gone.
The front fender scraped along the nearside tunnel wall in a shower of sparks and Denison wrenched the wheel over and nearly clipped the rear of the bus as it went by. He wobbled crazily from side to side of the tunnel for about a hundred and fifty yards before he had proper control, and it was only by the grace of God that the bus had not been the first in a procession of vehicles.
Level 2 passed in a flash and a flicker of light in Denison’s eyes, reflected from the rear-view mirror, told him that the car behind had also avoided the bus and was catching up again. He increased speed again and the tyres protested noisily with a rending squeal; the whole of the Spiralen would be filled with the stench of burning rubber.
Level 1. A brightness ahead warned of the approach of another vehicle and Denison tensed his muscles, but the tunnel straightened and he saw it was the daylight of the exit. He rammed down his foot and the car surged forward and came out of the tunnel like a shell from a gun. The fee-collector threw up his arms and jumped aside as the car shot past him. Denison screwed up his eyes against the sudden bright glare of sunlight and hurtled down the hill towards the main street of Drammen at top speed.
At the bottom of the hill he jammed on his brakes and wrenched the wheel sideways. The car heeled violently as it turned the corner and the tyres screamed again, leaving black rubber on the road. Then he literally stood on the brake pedal, rising in his seat, to avoid ploughing into a file of the good people of Drammen crossing the street at a traffic light. The car’s nose sank and the rear came up as it juddered to a halt, just grazing the thigh of a policeman who stood in the middle of the road with his back to Denison.
The policeman turned, his face expressionless. Denison sagged back into his seat and twisted his head to look back along the road. He saw the pursuing car break the other way and head down the road at high speed out of Drammen.
The policeman knocked on the car window and Denison wound it down to be met by a blast of hot Norwegian. He shook his head, and said loudly, ‘I have no Norwegian. Do you speak English?’
The policeman halted in mid-spate with his mouth open. He shut it firmly, took a deep breath, and said, ‘What you think you do?’
Denison pointed back. ‘It was those damn fools. I might have been killed.’
The policeman stood back and did a slow circumnavigation of the car, inspecting it carefully. Then he tapped on the window of the passenger side and Denison opened the door. The policeman got in. ‘Drive!’ he said.
When Denison pulled up outside the building marked POLISI and switched off the engine the policeman firmly took the car key from him and waved towards the door of the building. ‘Inside!’
It was a long wait for Denison. He sat in a bare room under the cool eye of a Norwegian policeman, junior grade, and meditated on his story. If he told the truth then the question would arise: Who would want to attack an Englishman called thing Meyrick? That would naturally lead to: Who is this Meyrick? Denison did not think he could survive long under questions like that. It would all come out and the consensus of opinion would be that they had a right nut-case on their hands, and probably homicidal at that. They would have to be told someother than the strict truth.
He waited an hour and then the telephone rang. The young policeman answered briefly, put down the telephone, and said to Denison, ‘Come!’
He was taken to an office where a senior policeman sat behind a desk. He picked up a pen and levelled it at a chair. ‘Sit!’
Denison sat, wondering if the English conversation of the Norwegian police was limited to one word at a time. The officer poised his pen above a printed form. ‘Name?’
‘Meyrick,’ said Denison. ‘Harold Feltham Meyrick.’
‘Nationality?’
‘British.’
The officer extended his hand, palm upwards. ‘Passport.’ It was not a question.
Denison took out his passport and put it on the outstretched palm. The officer flicked through the pages, then put it down and stared at Denison with eyes like chips of granite. ‘You drove through the streets of Drammen at an estimated speed of 140 kilometres an hour. I don’t have to tell you that is in excess of the speed limit. You drove through the Spiralen at an unknown speed – certainly less than 140 kilometres otherwise we would have the distasteful task of scraping you off the walls. What is your explanation?’
Denison now knew what a Norwegian policeman sounded like in an extended speech in the English language, and he did not particularly relish it. The man’s tone was scathing. He said, ‘There was a car behind me. The driver was playing silly buggers.’ The officer raised his eyebrows, and Denison said, ‘I think they were teenage hooligans out to throw a scare into someone – you know how they are. They succeeded with me. They rammed me a couple of times and I had to go faster. It all led on from that.’
He stopped and the officer stared at him with hard, grey eyes but said nothing. Denison let the silence lengthen, then said slowly and clearly, ‘I would like to get in touch with the British Embassy immediately.’
The officer lowered his eyes and consulted a typewritten form. ‘The condition of the rear of your car is consistent with your story. There was another car. It has been found abandoned. The condition of the front of that car is also consistent with your story. The car we found had been stolen last night in Oslo.’ He looked up. ‘Do you want to make any changes in your statement?’
‘No,’ said Denison.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure.’
The officer stood up, the passport in his hand. ‘Wait here.’ He walked out.
Denison waited another hour before the officer came back. He said, ‘An official from your Embassy is coming to be present while you prepare your written statement.’
‘I see,’ said Denison. ‘What about my passport?’
‘That will be handed to the Embassy official. Your car we will keep here for spectrographic tests of the paintwork. If there has been transfer of paint from one car to another it will tend to support your statement. In any event, the car cannot be driven in its present condition; both indicator lights are smashed – you would be breaking the law.’
Denison nodded. ‘How long before the Embassy man gets here?’
‘I cannot say. You may wait here.’ The officer went away.
Denison waited for two hours. On complaining of hunger, food and coffee were brought to him on a tray. Otherwise he was left alone except for the doctor who came in to dress an abrasion on the left side of his forehead. He dimly remembered being struck by a tree branch on the chase along the trail, but did not correct the doctor who assumed it had occurred in the Spiralen. What with one thing and another, the left side of Meyrick’s face was taking quite a beating; any photographs had better be of the right profile.
He said nothing about the wound in his side. While alone in the office he had checked it quickly. That knife must have been razor sharp; it had sliced through his topcoat, his jacket, the sweater and into his side, fortunately not deeply. The white sweater was red with blood but the wound, which appeared clean, had stopped bleeding although it hurt if he moved suddenly. He left it alone.
At last someone came – a dapper young man with a fresh face who advanced on Denison with an outstretched hand. ‘Dr Meyrick – I’m George McCready, I’ve come to help you get out of this spot of trouble.’
Behind McCready came the police officer, who drew up another chair and they got down to the business of the written statement. The officer wanted it amplified much more than in Denison’s bald, verbal statement so he obligingly told all that had happened from the moment he had entered the Spiralen tunnel on top of Bragernesasen. He had no need to lie about anything. His written statement was taken away and typed up in quadruplicate and he signed all four copies, McCready countersigning as witness.
McCready cocked his eye at the officer. ‘I think that’s all.’
The officer nodded. ‘That’s all – for the moment. Dr Meyrick may be required at another time. I trust he will be available.’
‘Of course,’ said McCready easily. He turned to Denison. ‘Let’s get you back to the hotel. You must be tired.’
They went out to McCready’s car. As McCready drove out of Drammen Denison was preoccupied with a problem. How did McCready know to address him as ‘Doctor’? The designation on his passport was just plain ‘Mister’. He stirred and said, ‘If we’re going to the hotel I’d like to have my passport. I don’t like to be separated from it.’
‘You’re not going to the hotel,’ said McCready. ‘That was for the benefit of the copper. I’m taking you to the Embassy. Carey flew in from London this morning and he wants to see you.’ He laughed shortly. ‘How he wants to see you.’
Denison felt the water deepening. ‘Carey,’ he said in a neutral tone, hoping to stimulate conversation along those lines. McCready had dropped Carey’s name casually as though Meyrick was supposed to know him. Who the devil was Carey?
McCready did not bite. ‘That explanation of yours wasn’t quite candid, was it?’ He waited for a reaction but Denison kept his mouth shut. ‘There’s a witness – a waitress from the Spiraltoppen – who said something about a fight up there. It seems there was a man with a gun. The police are properly suspicious.’
When Denison would not be drawn McCready glanced sideways at him, and laughed. ‘Never mind, you did the right thing under the circumstances. Never talk about guns to a copper – it makes them nervous. Mind you, the circumstances should never have arisen. Carey’s bloody wild about that.’ He sighed. ‘I can’t say that I blame him.’
It was gibberish to Denison and he judged that the less he said the better. He leaned back, favouring his injured side, and said, ‘I’m tired.’
‘Yes,’ said McCready. ‘I suppose you must be.’
FIVE (#ulink_6e5cb339-55a2-5791-8333-c56eac9704a9)
Denison was kept kicking his heels in an ante-room in the Embassy while McCready went off, presumably to report. After fifteen minutes he came back. ‘This way, Dr Meyrick.’
Denison followed him along a corridor until McCready stopped and politely held open a door for him. ‘You’ve already met Mr Carey, of course.’
The man sitting behind the desk could only be described as square. He was a big, chunky man with a square, head topped with close-cut grizzled grey hair. He was broad-chested and squared off at the shoulders, and his hands were big with blunt fingers. ‘Come in, Dr Meyrick.’ He nodded at McCready. ‘All right, George; be about your business.’
McCready closed the door. ‘Sit down, Doctor,’ said Carey. It was an invitation, not a command. Denison sat in the chair on the other side of the desk and waited for a long time while Carey inspected him with an inscrutable face.
After a long time Carey sighed. ‘Dr Meyrick, you were asked not to stray too far from your hotel and to keep strictly to central Oslo. If you wanted to go farther afield you were asked to let us know so that we could make the necessary arrangements. You see, our manpower isn’t infinite.’
His voice rose. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t have been asked; maybe you should have been told.’ He seemed to hold himself in with an effort, and lowered his voice again. ‘So I fly in this morning to hear that you’re missing, and then I’m told that you isolated yourself on a mountain top – for what reason only you know.’
He raised his hand to intercept interruption. Denison did not mind; he was not going to say anything, anyway.
‘All right,’ said Carey. ‘I know the story you told the local coppers. It was a good improvisation and maybe they’ll buy it and maybe they won’t.’ He put his hands flat on the desk. ‘Now what really happened?’
‘I was up there walking through the woods,’ said Denison, ‘when suddenly a man attacked me.’
‘Description?’
‘Tall. Broad. Not unlike you in build, but younger. He had black hair. His nose was broken. He had something in his hand – he was going to hit me with it. Some sort of cosh, I suppose.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I laid him out,’ said Denison.
‘You laid him out,’ said Carey in a flat voice. There was disbelief in his eye.
‘I laid him out,’ said Denison evenly. He paused. ‘I was a useful boxer at one time.’
Carey frowned and drummed his fingers. ‘Then what happened?’
‘Another man was coming at me from behind, so I ran for it.’
‘Wise man – some of the time, anyway. And…?’
‘Another man intercepted me from the front.’
‘Describe him.’
‘Shortish – about five foot seven – with a rat-face and a long nose. Dressed in jeans and a blue jersey. He had a knife.’
‘He had a knife, did he?’ said Carey. ‘So what did you do about that?’
‘Well, the other chap was coming up behind fast – I didn’t have much time to think – so I charged the joker with the knife and sold him the dummy at the last moment’
‘You what?’
‘I sold him the dummy. It’s a rugby expression meaning …’
‘I know what it means,’ snapped Carey. ‘I suppose you were a useful rugby player at one time, too.’
‘That’s right,’ said Denison.
Carey bent his head and put his hand to his brow so that his face was hidden. He seemed to be suppressing some strong emotion. ‘What happened next?’ he asked in a muffled voice.
‘By that time I’d got back to the car park – and there was another man.’
‘Another man,’ said Carey tiredly. ‘Description.’
‘Not much. I think he wore a grey suit He had a gun.’
‘Escalating on you, weren’t they?’ said Carey. His voice was savage. ‘So what did you do then?’
‘I was in the car by the time I saw the gun and I got out of there fast and …’
‘And did a Steve McQueen through the Spiralen, roared through Drammen like an express train and butted a copper in the arse.’
‘Yes,’ said Denison simply. ‘That about wraps it up.’
‘I should think it does,’ said Carey. He was silent for a while, then he said, ‘Regardless of the improbability of all this, I’d still like to know why you went to Drammen in the first place, and why you took the trouble to shake off any followers before leaving Oslo.’
‘Shake off followers,’ said Denison blankly. ‘I didn’t know I was being followed.’
‘You know now. It was for your own protection. But my man says he’s never seen such an expert job of shaking a tail in his life. You were up to all the tricks. You nearly succeeded twice, and you did succeed the third time.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Denison. ‘I lost my way a couple of times, that’s all.’
Carey took a deep breath and looked at the ceiling. ‘You lost your way,’ he breathed. His voice became deep and solemn. ‘Dr Meyrick: can you tell me why you lost your way when you know this area better than your own county of Buckinghamshire? You showed no signs of losing your way when you went to Drammen last week.’
Denison took the plunge. ‘Perhaps it’s because I’m not Dr Meyrick.’
Carey whispered, ‘What did you say?’
SIX (#ulink_0453cc10-1005-5bd8-b4e4-37986241c984)
Denison told all of it.
When he had finished Carey’s expression was a mixture of perturbation and harassment. He heard everything Denison had to say but made no comment; instead, he lifted the telephone, dialled a number, and said, ‘George? Ask Ian to come in here for a minute.’
He came from behind the desk and patted Denison on the shoulder. ‘I hope you don’t mind waiting for a few minutes.’ He strode away to intercept the man who had just come in and they held a whispered colloquy before Carey left the room.
He closed the door on the other side and stood for a moment in thought, then he shook his head irritably and went into McCready’s office. McCready looked up, saw Carey’s expression, and said, ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Our boy has rolled clean off his tiny little rocker,’ snapped Carey. ‘That’s what’s the matter. He started off by telling cock-and-bull stories, but then it got worse – much worse.’
‘What did he say?’
Carey told him – in gruesome detail.
Ten minutes later he said, ‘Discounting a lot of balls about mysterious attackers, something happened up there on top of the Spiralen which knocked Meyrick off his perch.’ He rubbed his forehead. ‘When they wish these eggheads on us you’d think they’d test them for mental stability. What we need now is an alienist.’
McCready suppressed a smile. ‘Isn’t that rather an old-fashioned term?’
Carey glared at him. ‘Old-fashioned and accurate.’ He stabbed his finger at the office wall. ‘That … that thing in there isn’t human any more. I tell you, my flesh crawled when I heard what he was saying.’
‘There isn’t a chance that he’s right, is there?’ asked McCready diffidently.
‘No chance at all. I was facing Meyrick at the original briefing in London for two bloody days until I got to hate the sight of his fat face. It’s Meyrick, all right.’
‘There is one point that puzzles me,’ said McCready. ‘When I was with him at the police station in Drammen he didn’t speak a word of Norwegian, and yet I understand he knows the language.’
‘He speaks it fluently,’ said Carey.
‘And yet I’m told that his first words were to the effect that he spoke no Norwegian.’
‘For God’s sake!’ said Carey. ‘You know the man’s history. He was born in Finland and lived there until he was seventeen, when he came to live here in Oslo. When he was twenty-four he moved to England where he’s been ever since. That’s twenty-two years. He didn’t see a rugby ball until he arrived in England, and I’ve studied his dossier and know for a fact that he never boxed in his life.’
‘Then it all fits in with his story that he’s not Meyrick.’ McCready paused for thought. ‘There was a witness at Spiraltoppen who said she saw a gun.’
‘A hysterical waitress,’ sneered Carey. ‘Wait a minute – did you tell Meyrick about that?’
‘I did mention it.’
‘It fits,’ said Carey. ‘You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if the story Meyrick gave to the police wasn’t the absolute truth. He was razzled by a few kids out for a joyride in a stolen car and the experience knocked him off his spindle.’
‘And the gun?’
‘You told him about the gun. He seized that and wove it into his fairy tale, and added a few other trimmings such as the knife and the cosh. I think that in the Spiralen he felt so bloody helpless that he’s invented this story to retain what he thinks is his superiority. At the briefing I assessed him as an arrogant bastard, utterly convinced of his superiority to us lesser mortals. But he wasn’t very superior in the Spiralen, was he?’
‘Interesting theory,’ said McCready. ‘You’d make a good alienist – except for one thing. You lack empathy.’
‘I can’t stand the man,’ said Carey bluntly. ‘He’s an overweening, overbearing, supercilious son-of-a-bitch who thinks the sun shines out of his arse. Mr Know-it-all in person and too bloody toplofty by half.’ He shrugged. ‘But I can’t pick and choose the people I work with. It’s not in my contract.’
‘What did you say he called himself?’
‘Giles Denison from Hampstead. Hampstead, for Christ’s sake!’
‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ said McCready. He left the room.
Carey loosened his tie with a jerk and sat biting his thumbnail. He looked up as McCready came back holding a book. ‘What have you got there?’
‘London telephone directory.’
‘Give me that,’ said Carey, and grabbed it. ‘Let’s see – Dennis, Dennis, Dennis … Dennison. There’s a George and two plain Gs – neither in Hampstead.’ He sat back, looking pleased.
McCready took the book and flipped the pages. After a minute he said, ‘Denison, Giles … Hampstead. He spells it with one “n”.’
‘Oh, Christ!’ said Carey, looking stricken. He recovered. ‘Doesn’t mean a thing. He picked the name of someone he knows. His daughter’s boy-friend, perhaps.’
‘Perhaps,’ said McCready non-committally.
Carey drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘I’ll stake my life that this is Meyrick; anything else would be too ridiculous.’ His fingers were suddenly stilled. ‘Mrs Hansen,’ he said. ‘She’s been closer to him than anybody. Did she have anything to say?’
‘She reported last night that she’d met him. He’d broken a date with her in the morning and excused it by pleading illness. Said he’d been in bed all morning.’
‘Had he?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did she notice anything about him – anything odd or unusual?’
‘Only that he had a cold and that he’d stopped smoking. He said cigarettes tasted like straw.’
Carey, a pipe-smoker, grunted. ‘They taste like straw to me without a cold. But he recognised her.’
‘They had a drink and a conversation – about morals and religion, she said.’
‘That does it,’ said Carey. ‘Meyrick is ready to pontificate about anything at the drop of a hat, whether he knows anything about it or not.’ He rubbed his chin and said grudgingly, ‘Trouble is, he usually talks sense – he has a good brain. No, this is Meyrick, and Meyrick is as flabby as a bladder of lard – that’s why we have to coddle him on this operation. Do you really think that Meyrick could stand up against four men with guns and knives and coshes? The man could hardly break the skin on the top of a custard. He’s gone out of his tiny, scientific mind and his tale of improbable violence is just to save his precious superiority, as I said before.’
‘And what about the operation?’
‘As far as Meyrick is concerned the operation is definitely off,’ said Carey decisively. ‘And, right now, I don’t see how it can be done without him. I’ll cable London to that effect as soon as I’ve had another talk with him.’ He paused. ‘You’d better come along, George. I’m going to need a witness on this one or else London will have me certified.’
They left the office and walked along the corridor. Outside the room where Meyrick was held Carey put his hand on McCready’s arm. ‘Hold yourself in, George. This might be rough.’
They found Meyrick still sitting at the desk in brooding silence, ignoring the man he knew only as Ian who sat opposite. Ian looked up at Carey and shrugged eloquently.
Carey stepped forward. ‘Dr Meyrick, I’m sorry to …’
‘My name is Denison. I told you that.’ His voice was cold.
Carey softened his tone. ‘All right, Mr Denison; if you prefer it that way. I really think you ought to see a doctor. I’m arranging for it.’
‘And about time,’ said Denison. ‘This is hurting like hell.’
‘What is?’
Denison was pulling his sweater from his trousers. ‘This bloody knife wound. Look at it.’
Carey and McCready bent to look at the quarter-inch deep slash along Denison’s side. It would, Carey estimated, take sixteen stitches to sew it up.
Their heads came up together and they looked at each other with a wild surmise.
SEVEN (#ulink_058812ac-6f6d-54e7-b740-763129c488b3)
Carey paced restlessly up and down McCready’s office. His tie was awry and his hair would have been tousled had it not been so close-cropped because he kept running his hand through it. ‘I still don’t believe it,’ he said. ‘It’s too bloody incredible.’
He swung on McCready. ‘George, supposing you went to bed tonight, here in Oslo, and woke up tomorrow, say, in a New York hotel, wearing someone else’s face. What would be your reaction?’
‘I think I’d go crazy,’ said McCready soberly. He smiled slightly. ‘If I woke up with your face I would go crazy.’
Carey ignored the wisecrack. ‘But Denison didn’t go crazy,’ he said meditatively. ‘All things considered, he kept his cool remarkably well.’
‘If he is Denison,’ remarked McCready. ‘He could be Meyrick and quite insane.’
Carey exploded into a rage. ‘For God’s sake! All along you’ve been arguing that he’s Denison; now you turn around and say he could be Meyrick.’
McCready eyed him coolly. ‘The role of devil’s advocate suits me, don’t you think?’ He tapped the desk. ‘Either way, the operation is shot to hell.’
Carey sat down heavily. ‘You’re right, of course. But if this is a man called Denison then there are a lot of questions to be answered. But first, what the devil do we do with him?’
‘We can’t keep him here,’ said McCready. ‘For the same reason we didn’t keep Meyrick here. The Embassy is like a fishbowl.’
Carey cocked his head. ‘He’s been here for over two hours. That’s about normal for a citizen being hauled over the coals for a serious driving offence. You suggest we send him back to the hotel?’
‘Under surveillance.’ McCready smiled. ‘He says he has a date with a redhead for dinner.’
‘Mrs Hansen,’ said Carey. ‘Does he know about her?’
‘No.’
‘Keep it that way. She’s to stick close to him. Give her a briefing and ask her to guard him from interference. He could run into some odd situations. And talk to him like a Dutch uncle. Put the fear of God into him so that he stays in the hotel. I don’t want him wandering around loose.’
Carey drew a sheet of paper towards him and scribbled on it. ‘The next thing we want are doctors – tame ones who will ask the questions we want asked and no others. A plastic surgeon and –’ he smiled at McCready bleakly – ‘and an alienist. The problem must be decided one way or the other.’
‘We can’t wait until they arrive,’ said McCready.
‘Agreed,’ said Carey. ‘We’ll work on the assumption that a substitution has been made – that this man is Denison. We know when the substitution was made – in the early hours of yesterday morning. Denison was brought in – how?’
‘On a stretcher – he must have been unconscious.’
‘Right!’ said Carey. ‘A hospital patient in transit under the supervision of a trained nurse and probably a doctor. And they’d have taken a room on the same floor as Meyrick. The switch was made and Meyrick taken out yesterday morning – probably in an ambulance at the back entrance of the hotel by arrangement with the management. Hotels don’t like stretchers being paraded through the front lobby.’
‘I’ll get on to it,’ said McCready. ‘It might be an idea to check on all the people who booked in on the previous day, regardless of the floor they stayed on. I don’t think this was a two man job.’
‘I don’t, either. And you check the comings and goings for the past week – somebody must have been watching Meyrick for a long time.’
‘That’s a hell of a big job,’ objected McCready. ‘Do we get the co-operation of the Norwegians?’
Carey pondered. ‘At this time – no. We keep it under wraps.’
McCready’s face took on a sad look at the thought of all the legwork he was going to have to do. Carey tilted his chair back. ‘And then there’s the other end to be checked – the London end. Why Giles Denison of Hampstead?’ His chair came down with a thump. ‘Hasn’t it struck you that Denison has been very unforthcoming?’
McCready shrugged. ‘I haven’t talked to him all that much.’
‘Well, look,’ said Carey. ‘Here we have this man in this bloody odd situation in which he finds himself. After recovering from the first shock, he not only manages to deceive Mrs Hansen as to his real identity but he has the wit to ring up Meyrick’s home. But why only Meyrick? Why didn’t he check back on himself?’
‘How do you mean?’
Carey sighed. ‘There’s a man called Giles Denison missing from Hampstead. Surely he’d be missed by someone? Even if Denison is an unmarried orphan he must have friends – a job. Why didn’t he ring back to reassure people that he was all right and still alive and now living it up in Oslo?’
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ admitted McCready. ‘That’s a pointer to his being Meyrick, after all. Suffering from delusions but unable to flesh them out properly.’
Carey gave a depressed nod. ‘All I’ve had from him is that he’s Giles Denison from Hampstead – nothing more.’
‘Why not put it to him now?’ suggested McCready.
Carey thought about it and shook his head. ‘No, I’ll leave that to the psychiatrist. If this is really Meyrick, the wrong sort of questions could push him over the edge entirely.’ He pulled the note pad towards him again. ‘We’ll have someone check on Denison in Hampstead and find out the score.’ He ripped off the sheet. ‘Let’s get cracking. I want those cables sent to London immediately – top priority and coded. I want those quacks here as fast as possible.’
EIGHT (#ulink_f57eb46e-a78e-5cd1-ade7-137ab2a313fd)
Giles Denison stirred his coffee and smiled across the table at Diana Hansen. His smile was steady, which was remarkable because a thought had suddenly struck him like a bolt of lightning and left him with a churning stomach. Was the delectable Diana Hansen who faced him Meyrick’s mistress?
The very thought put him into a dilemma. Should he make a pass or not? Whatever he did – or did not – do, he had a fifty per cent chance of being wrong. The uncertainty of it spoiled his evening which had so far been relaxing and pleasant.
He had been driven back to the hotel in an Embassy car after dire warnings from George McCready of what would happen to him if he did not obey instructions. ‘You’ll have realized by now that you’ve dropped right into the middle of something awkward,’ said McCready. ‘We’re doing our best to sort it out but, for the next couple of days, you’d do well to stay in the hotel.’ He drove it home by asking pointedly, ‘How’s your side feeling now?’
‘Better,’ said Denison. ‘But I could have done with a doctor.’ He had been strapped up by McCready, who had produced a first-aid box and displayed a competence which suggested he was no stranger to knife wounds.
‘You’ll get a doctor,’ assured McCready. ‘Tomorrow.’
‘I have a dinner date,’ said Denison. ‘With that redhead I told you about. What should I do about that? If she goes on like she did yesterday I’m sure to put my foot in it.’
‘I don’t see why you should,’ said McCready judiciously.
‘For God’s sake! I don’t even know her name.’
McCready patted him on the shoulder, and said soothingly, ‘You’ll be all right.’
Denison was plaintive. ‘It’s all very well you wanting me to go on being Meyrick but surely you can tell me something. Who is Meyrick, for instance?’
‘It will all be explained tomorrow,’ said McCready, hoping that he was right. ‘In the meantime, go back to the hotel like a good chap, and don’t leave it until I call for you. Just have a quiet dinner with … with your redhead and then go to bed.’
Denison had a last try. ‘Are you in Intelligence or something? A spy?’
But to that McCready made no answer.
So Denison was delivered to the hotel and he had not been in the room more than ten minutes when the telephone rang. He regarded it warily and let it ring several times before he put out his hand as though about to pick up a snake. ‘Yes?’ he said uncommunicatively.
‘Diana here.’
‘Who?’ he asked cautiously.
‘Diana Hansen, who else? We have a dinner date, remember? How are you?’
Again he caught the faint hint of America behind the English voice. ‘Better,’ he said, thinking it was convenient of her to announce her name.
‘That’s good,’ she said warmly. ‘Are you fit enough for dinner?’
‘I think so.’
‘Mmm,’ she murmured doubtfully. ‘But I still don’t think you should go out; there’s quite a cold wind. What about dinner in the hotel restaurant?’
Even more convenient; he had just been about to suggest that himself. In a more confident voice he said, ‘That’ll be fine.’
‘Meet you in the bar at half past seven,’ she said.
‘All right.’
She rang off and he put down the telephone slowly. He hoped that McCready was right; that he could manage a sustained conversation with this woman in the guise of Meyrick. He sat in the armchair and winced as pain stabbed in his side. He held his breath until the pain eased and then relaxed and looked at his watch. Half past five. He had two hours before meeting the Hansen woman.
What a mess! What a stinking mess! Lost behind another man’s face, he had apparently dropped into the middle of an intrigue which involved the British government. That man, Carey, had been damned patronizing about what had happened on top of the Spiralen and had not bothered to hide his disbelief. It had been that, more than anything else, that had driven Denison into disclosing who he was. It had certainly taken the smile off Carey’s face.
But who was Carey? To begin with, he was obviously McCready’s boss – but that did not get him very far because who was McCready? A tight little group in the British Embassy in Oslo dedicated to what? Trade relations? That did not sound likely.
Carey had made it clear that he had warned Meyrick not to move far from the hotel. Judging by what had happened on the Spiralen the warning was justified. But who the hell was Meyrick that he was so important? The man with the title of Doctor or perhaps Professor, and who was described on his passport as a civil servant.
Denison’s head began to ache again. Christ! he thought; I’ll be bloody glad to get back to Hampstead, back to my job and the people I …
The thought tailed off to a deadly emptiness and he felt his stomach lurch. A despairing wail rose in his mind – God help me! he cried silently as he realized his mind was a blank, that he did not know what his job was, that he could not put a name to a single friend or acquaintance, and that all he knew of himself was that he was Giles Denison and that he came from Hampstead.
Bile rose in his throat. He struggled to his feet and staggered to the bathroom where he was violently sick. Again there was that insistent beat in his mind: I AM GILES DENISON. But there was nothing more – no link with a past life.
He left the bathroom and lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. You must remember! he commanded himself. You must! But there was nothing – just Giles Denison of Hampstead and a vague mind picture of a house in a half-forgotten memory.
Think!
The scar on his shin – he remembered that. He saw himself on the small child-size bicycle going down a hill too fast, and the inevitable tumble at the bottom – then the quick tears and the comfort of his mother. I remember that, he told himself in triumph.
What else? Beth – he remembered Beth who had been his wife, but she had died. How many years ago was it? Three years. And then there was the whisky, too much whisky. He remembered the whisky.
Denison lay on the bed and fought to extract memories from a suddenly recalcitrant mind. There was a slick sheen of sweat on his brow and his fists were clenched, the nails digging into his palms.
Something else he had remembered before. He had come back from Edinburgh on June 17, but what had he been doing there? Working, of course, but what was his work? Try as he might he could not penetrate the blank haze which cloaked his mind.
On June 18 he had played golf in the afternoon. With whom? Of course it was possible for a man to play a round of golf alone, and also to go to the cinema alone and to dine in Soho alone, but it was hardly likely that he would forget everything else. Where had he played golf? Which cinema did he go to? Which restaurant in Soho?
A blazing thought struck him, an illumination of the mind so clear that he knew certainly it was the truth. He cried aloud, ‘But I’ve never played golf in my life!’
There was a whirling spiral of darkness in his mind and, mercifully, he slept.
NINE (#ulink_c2157b90-a023-5133-b1c5-a8ba4eca44fd)
Denison walked into the bar at a quarter to eight and saw the woman who called herself Diana Hansen sitting at a table. He walked over and said, ‘Sorry I’m late.’
She smiled and said lightly, ‘I was beginning to think I was being stood up again.’
He sat down. ‘I fell asleep.’
‘You look pale. Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine.’ There was a vague memory at the back of his mind which disturbed him; something had happened just before he had fallen asleep. He was reluctant to probe into it because he caught a hint of terror and madness which frightened him. He shivered.
‘Cold?’ Her voice was sympathetic.
‘Nothing that a stiff drink won’t cure.’ He beckoned to a passing waiter, and raised his eyebrows at her.
‘A dry Martini, please.’
He turned to the hovering waiter. ‘A dry martini and … do you have a scotch malt?’ Normally he bought the cheapest blend he could buy in the cut-price supermarkets but with Meyrick’s finances behind him he could afford the best.
‘Yes, sir. Glenfiddich?’
‘That will do fine. Thank you.’
Diana Hansen said, ‘Food may be better than drink. Have you eaten today?’
‘Not much.’ Just the meal in the police station at Drammen, taken for fuel rather than pleasure.
‘You men!’ she said with scorn. ‘No better than children when left on your own. You’ll feel better after dinner.’
He leaned back in his chair. ‘Let’s see – how long have we known each other, Diana?’
She smiled. ‘Counting the days, Harry? Nearly three weeks.’
So he had met her in Oslo – or, rather, Meyrick had. ‘I was just trying to find out how long it takes a woman to become maternal. Less than three weeks, I see.’
‘Is that the scientific mind at work?’
‘One aspect of it.’ Could that mean anything? Was Dr Meyrick a scientist – a government boffin?
She looked across the room and a shadow seemed to darken her face momentarily. ‘There’s Jack Kidder and his wife.’
Denison paused before he turned round. ‘Oh! Where?’
‘Just coming in.’ She put out her hand and covered his. ‘Do you want to be bothered by them, darling? He’s a bit of a bore, really.’
Denison looked at the tall, fleshy man who was escorting a petite woman. Jack Kidder was the name Diana Hansen had mentioned when he had bumped into her outside the bookshop. If she did not want to mix with the Kidders it was all right with him; he had enough to cope with already. He said, ‘You’re right. I don’t think I could cope with a bore tonight.’
She laughed. ‘Thanks for the compliment – hidden though it was. I’ll put him off tactfully if he comes across.’ She sighed theatrically. ‘But if he says that damned slogan of his again I’ll scream.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You must have heard it. It’s when he pulls off one of his dreadful jokes.’ She burlesqued an American accent. ‘“You know me – Kidder by name and kidder by nature.”’
‘Jack was always the life and soul of the party,’ said Denison drily.
‘I don’t know how Lucy puts up with him,’ said Diana. ‘If you can talk about a hen-pecked husband, can you refer to a cock-pecked wife?’
Denison grinned. ‘It sounds rude.’ Diana Hansen was making things easy for him. She had just given him a thumbnail sketch of the Kidders, including names and temperaments. It could not have been done better if done deliberately.
The waiter put the drinks on the table and Denison found he had a scotch on the rocks, a desecration of good malt. He did not feel like making a fuss about it so he raised his glass. ‘Skal!’ He sipped the whisky and reflected that this was the first real drink he had had since his transformation into Meyrick.
The familiar taste bit at his tongue and somehow released a wave of memories which washed through him tumultuously, tantalizingly close to the surface of his mind. And with the memories, unrealized though they were, came the fear and the terror which set his heart thumping in his chest. Hastily he set down the glass, knowing he was close to panic.
Diana Hansen looked at his shaking fingers. ‘What’s the matter, Harry?’
Denison covered up. ‘I don’t think a drink is a good idea, after all. I’ve just remembered I’m stuffed full of pills.’ He managed a smile. ‘If you shook me I’d rattle. I don’t think they’d mix with alcohol.’
She put down her glass. Then let’s have dinner before the Kidders catch up with us.’ She stood up and took her handbag from the table. Denison arose and they moved towards the entrance, but then she turned her head and murmured, Too late, I’m afraid.’
Kidder was also standing up, his big body blocking the way. ‘Hey, Lucy, look who’s here. It’s Diana and Harry.’
‘Hallo, Jack,’ said Denison. ‘Had a good day?’
‘We’ve been up to Holmenkollen; you know – the big ski-jump you can see from all over the city. It’s quite a thing when you get up to it close. Can you imagine, it’s only used once a year?’
‘I can’t imagine,’ said Denison blandly.
Lucy Kidder said, ‘And we went to the Henie-Onstad Art Centre, too.’
‘Yeah, modern art,’ said Kidder disparagingly. ‘Harry, can you make any sense out of Jackson Pollock?’
‘Not much,’ said Denison.
Kidder turned on his wife. ‘Anyway, why the hell do we have to come to Norway to see an American artist?’
‘But he’s internationally famous, Jack. Aren’t you proud of that?’
‘I guess so,’ he said gloomily. ‘But the locals aren’t much better. Take the guy with the name like a breakfast food.’ Everyone looked at Kidder with blank faces and he snapped his fingers impatiently. ‘You know who I mean – the local Scowegian we saw yesterday.’
Lucy Kidder sighed. ‘Edvard Munch,’ she said resignedly.
‘That’s the guy. Too gloomy for me even if you can see the people in his pictures,’ said Kidder.
Diana cut in quickly. ‘Harry’s not been feeling too well lately. I’m taking him in to an early dinner and sending him right to bed.’
‘Gee, I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Kidder. He sounded sincere.
‘There’s a lot of this two-day flu about,’ said his wife. ‘And it can be nasty while it lasts. You look after yourself – hear?’
‘I don’t think it’s too serious,’ said Denison.
‘But we’d better go in to dinner,’ said Diana. ‘Harry hasn’t eaten a thing all day.’
‘Sure,’ said Kidder, standing aside. ‘I hope you feel better real soon. You look after him, Diana.’
Over dinner they talked in generalities, much to Denison’s relief, and he was able to hold his own without much effort. There was not a single thing to trouble him until the coffee was served and that startling thought about the possible relationship between Diana and Meyrick came into his head. He looked at her speculatively and wondered what to do. For all he knew, Meyrick was an old ram.
He held the smile on his face and stirred his coffee mechanically. A waiter came to the table. ‘Mrs Hansen?’
Diana looked up. ‘Yes.’
‘A telephone call.’
‘Thank you.’ She looked at Denison apologetically. ‘I told someone I’d be here. Do you mind?’
‘Not at all.’ She stood up and left the restaurant, going into the lobby. He watched her until she was out of sight and then stopped stirring his coffee and put the spoon in the saucer with a clink. Thoughtfully he looked at the handbag on the other side of the table.
Mrs Hansen! He could bear to know more about that. He stretched out his hand slowly and picked up the handbag, which was curiously heavy. Holding it on his lap, below the level of the table, he snapped open the catch and bent his head to look inside.
When Diana came back the bag was back in its place. She sat down, picked it up, and took out a packet of cigarettes. ‘Still not smoking, Harry?’
He shook his head. ‘They still taste foul.’
Soon thereafter he signed the bill and they left, parting in the lobby, he to go to bed and she to go to wherever she lived. He had decided against making a pass at Mrs Diana Hansen because it was most unlikely that Dr Harold Feltham Meyrick would be having an affaire with a woman who carried a gun – even if it was only a small gun.
TEN (#ulink_19951f4e-a66f-5efd-8140-e78eebb91659)
The next day was boring. He obeyed instructions and stayed in the hotel waiting to hear from McCready. He breakfasted in his room and ordered English newspapers. Nothing had changed – the news was as bad as ever.
At mid-morning he left the room to allow the maid to clean up, and went down to the lobby where he saw the Kidders at the porter’s desk. He hung back, taking an inordinate interest in a showcase full of Norwegian silver, while Kidder discussed in a loud voice the possibilities of different bus tours. Finally they left the hotel and he came out of cover.
He discovered that the bookshop on the corner of the street had a convenient entrance inside the hotel, so he bought a stack of English paperbacks and took them to his room. He read for the rest of the day, gutting the books, his mind in low gear. He had a curious reluctance to think about his present predicament and, once, when he put a book aside and tried to think coherently, his mind skittered about and he felt the unreasoning panic come over him. When he picked up the book again his head was aching.
At ten that night no contact had been made and he thought of ringing the Embassy and asking for McCready but the strange disinclination to thought had spread to action and he was irresolute. He looked at the telephone for a while, and then slowly undressed and went to bed.
He was almost asleep when there was a tap at his door. He sat up and listened and it came again, a discreet double knock. He switched on the light and put on Meyrick’s bathrobe, then went to the door. It was McCready, who came in quickly and closed the door behind him. ‘Ready for the doctor?’ he asked.
Denison frowned. ‘At this time of night?’
‘Why not?’ asked McCready lightly.
Denison sighed. It was just one more mystery to add to the others. He reached for his underwear and took off the bathrobe. McCready picked up the pyjamas which were lying neatly folded on top of the suitcase. ‘You don’t wear these?’
‘Meyrick did.’ Denison sat on the edge of the bed to put on his socks. ‘I don’t.’
‘Oh!’ McCready thoughtfully tugged at his ear.
When Denison picked up his jacket he turned to McCready. ‘There’s something you ought to know, I suppose. Diana Hansen carries …’
‘Who?’ asked McCready.
‘The redhead I took to dinner – her name is Diana Hansen. She carries a gun.’
McCready went still. ‘She does? How do you know?’
‘I looked in her handbag.’
‘Enterprising of you. I’ll tell Carey – he’ll be interested.’ McCready took Denison by the arm. ‘Let’s go.’
McCready’s car was in the garage and when he drove out into the street he turned left which Denison knew was away from the Embassy. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Not far,’ said McCready. ‘Five minutes. Possess your soul in patience.’
Within two minutes Denison was lost. The car twisted and turned in the strange streets until his sense of direction deserted him. Whether McCready was deliberately confusing him he did not know, but he thought it likely. Another possibility was that McCready was intent on shaking off any possible followers.
After a few minutes the car pulled up outside a large building which could have been a block of flats. They went inside and into a lift which took them to the fifth floor. McCready unlocked a door and motioned Denison inside. He found himself in a hall with doors on each side. McCready opened one of them, and said, ‘This is Mr Iredale. He’ll fix up your side for you.’
Iredale was a sallow, middle-aged man, balding and with deep grooves cut from the base of his nose to the corners of his mouth. He said pleasantly, ‘Come in, Mr Denison; let me have a look at you.’
Denison heard the door close behind him and turned to find that McCready had already gone. He whirled around to confront Iredale. ‘I thought I was being taken to a doctor.’
‘I am a doctor,’ said Iredale. ‘I’m also a surgeon. We surgeons have a strange inverted snobbery – we’re called “mister” and not “doctor”. I’ve never known why. Take off your coat, Mr Denison, and let me see the damage.’
Denison hesitated and slowly took off his jacket and then his shirt. ‘If you’ll lie on the couch?’ suggested Iredale, and opened a black bag which could only have been the property of a doctor. Somewhat reassured, Denison lay down.
Iredale snipped away the bandages with a small pair of scissors and examined the slash. ‘Nasty,’ he said. ‘But clean. It will need a local anaesthetic. Are you allergic to anaesthetic, Mr Denison?’
‘I don’t know – I don’t think so.’
‘You’ll just feel three small pricks – no more.’ Iredale took out a hypodermic syringe and filled it from a small phial. ‘Lie still.’
Denison felt the pricks, and Iredale said, ‘While we’re waiting for that to take effect you can sit up.’ He took an ophthalmoscope from his bag. ‘I’d just like to look at your eyes.’ He flashed a light into Denison’s right eye. ‘Had any alcohol lately?’
‘No.’
Iredale switched to the left eye upon which he spent more time. ‘That seems to be all right,’ he said.
‘I was stabbed in the side, not hit on the head,’ said Denison. ‘I don’t have concussion.’
Iredale put away the ophthalmoscope. ‘So you have a little medical knowledge.’ He put his hands to Denison’s face and palpated the flesh under the chin. ‘You know what they say about a little knowledge.’ He stood up and looked down at the top of Denison’s head, and then his fingers explored the hairline. ‘Don’t knock the experts, Mr Denison – they know what they’re doing.’
‘What sort of a doctor are you?’ asked Denison suspiciously.
Iredale ignored that. ‘Ever had scalp trouble? Dandruff, for instance?’
‘No.’
‘I see. Right.’ He touched Denison’s side. ‘Feel anything?’
‘It’s numb but I can feel pressure.’
‘Good,’ said Iredale. ‘I’m going to stitch the wound closed. You won’t feel anything – but if you do then shout like hell.’ He put on rubber gloves which he took out of a sealed plastic bag and then took some fine thread out of another small packet. ‘I’d turn your head away,’ he advised. ‘Lie down.’
He worked on Denison’s side for about fifteen minutes and Denison felt nothing but the pressure of his fingers. At last he said, ‘All right, Mr Denison; I’ve finished.’
Denison sat up and looked at his side. The wound was neatly closed and held by a row of minute stitches. ‘I’ve always been good at needlework,’ said Iredale conversationally. ‘When the stitches are out there’ll be but a hairline. In a year you won’t be able to see it.’
Denison said, ‘This isn’t a doctor’s surgery. Who are you?’
Iredale packed his bag rapidly and stood up. ‘There’ll be another doctor to see you in a moment.’ He walked to the door and closed it behind him.
There was something about the way the door closed that vaguely alarmed Denison. He stood up and walked to the door and found it locked. Frowning, he turned away and looked about the room. There was the settee on which he had been lying, a table, two armchairs and a bookcase against the wall. He went over to the bookcase to inspect it and tripped over a wire which threatened to topple a telephone from a small table. He rescued the telephone and then stood looking down at it.
Iredale walked along the corridor and into a room at the end. Carey glanced up at him expectantly, breaking off his conversation with McCready. Harding, the psychiatrist, sat in an armchair, his long legs outstretched and his fingertips pressed together. There was also another man whom Iredale did not know. Carey saw Iredale looking at him, and said, ‘Ian Armstrong of my staff. Well?’ He could not suppress his eagerness.
Iredale put down his case. ‘He’s not Meyrick.’ He paused. ‘Not unless Meyrick has had plastic surgery recently.’
Carey blew out his breath in a long gasp. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure,’ said Iredale, a little testily.
‘That’s it, then.’ Carey looked across at Harding. ‘It’s your turn, Dr Harding. Try to get out of him as much as you can.’
Harding nodded and uncoiled himself from the chair. He walked out of the room without speaking. As the door closed Carey said, ‘You understand that, to the best of our knowledge, this alteration was made in the space of a week – not more.’ He took a thin, cardboard file from the table. ‘We’ve just received a lengthy cable from London about Denison – and a photo came over the wire.’ He took the photograph and handed it to Iredale. ‘That’s Denison as he was quite recently. It hardly seems possible.’
Iredale studied the photograph. ‘Very interesting,’ he commented.
‘Could this thing be done in a week?’ Carey persisted.
Iredale put down the photograph. ‘As far as I could ascertain there was only one lesion,’ he said precisely. ‘That was at the outside corner of the left eyelid. A very small cut which was possibly held together by one stitch while it healed. It would certainly heal in a week although there might have been a residual soreness. I detected a minute inflammation.’
McCready said in disbelief, ‘You mean that was the only cut that was made?’
‘Yes,’ said Iredale. ‘The purpose was to draw down the left eyelid. Have you got that photograph of Meyrick?’
‘Here,’ said Carey.
Iredale put down his forefinger. ‘There – you see? The eyelid was drawn down due to the skin contraction caused by this scar.’ He paused and said sniffily, ‘A bit of a butcher’s job, if you ask me. That should never have happened.’
‘It was a war wound when Meyrick was a boy,’ said Carey. He tapped the photograph of Meyrick. ‘But how the devil did they reproduce this scar on Denison without cutting?’
‘That was very cleverly done,’ said Iredale with sudden enthusiasm. ‘As expert a job of tattooing as I’ve ever seen, as also was the birthmark on the right jaw.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘In my field, of course, I come across a lot of tattooing but I specialize in removal rather than application.’ He leaned forward again and traced a line on the photograph. ‘The hairline was adjusted by depilation; nothing as crude as mere shaving and leaving the hair to grow out. I’m afraid Mr Denison has lost his hair permanently.’
‘That’s all very well,’ said McCready, coming forward. He leaned over the table, comparing the two photographs. ‘But just look at these two men. Denison is thin in the face, and he’d look thinner without the beard. Meyrick is fat-jowled. And look at the differences in the noses.’
‘That was done by liquid silicone injection,’ said Iredale. ‘Some of my more light-minded colleagues aid film stars in their mammary development by the same means.’ His tone was distasteful. ‘I palpated his cheeks and felt it. It was quite unmistakable.’
‘I’ll be damned!’ said Carey.
‘You say that Denison lost a week of objective time?’ asked Iredale.
‘He said he’d lost a week out of his life – if that’s what you mean.’
‘Then I can hazard a guess as to how it was done,’ said Iredale. ‘He was drugged, of course, and kept unconscious for the whole week. I noticed a dressing on his left arm. I didn’t investigate it, but that was where the intravenous drip feed was inserted to keep him alive.’
He paused, and Carey said in a fascinated voice, ‘Go on!’
‘The cut would be made at the corner of the eye, giving it a full week to heal. Any competent surgeon could do that in five minutes. Then I suppose they’d do the tattooing. Normally there’d be a residual soreness from that, but it would certainly clear up in a week. Everything else could be done at leisure.’
He picked up the two photographs. ‘You see, the underlying bone structure of these two men, as far as the heads go, is remarkably similar. I rather think that if you had a photograph of Meyrick taken fifteen to twenty years ago he would look not unlike Denison or, rather, as Denison used to look. I take it that Meyrick has been used to expensive living?’
‘He’s rich enough,’ said Carey.
‘It shows on his face,’ said Iredale, and tossed down the photographs. ‘Denison, however, looks a shade undernourished.’
‘Interesting you should say that,’ said Carey, opening the folder. ‘From what we have here it seems that Denison, if not an alcoholic, was on the verge. He’d just lost his job – fired for incompetence on June 24.’
Iredale nodded. ‘Symptomatic. Alcoholics reject food – they get their calories from the booze.’ He stood up. ‘That’s all I can do tonight, gentlemen. I should like to see Denison tomorrow with a view to restoring him to his former appearance, which won’t be easy – that silicone polymer will be the devil to get out. Is there any more?’
‘Nothing, Mr Iredale,’ said Carey.
‘Then if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go to bed. It’s been a long day.’
‘You know where your room is,’ said Carey, and Iredale nodded and left the room.
Carey and McCready looked at each other in silence for some time, and then Carey stirred and said over his shoulder, ‘What did you make of all that, Ian?’
‘I’m damned if I know,’ said Armstrong.
Carey grunted. ‘I’m damned, too. I’ve been involved in some bizarre episodes in this game, but this takes the prize for looniness. Now we’ll have to see what Harding comes up with, and I suspect he’s going to be a long time. I think somebody had better make coffee. It’s going to be a long night.’
Carey was right because more than two hours elapsed before Harding returned. His face was troubled, and he said abruptly, ‘I don’t think Denison should be left alone.’
‘Ian!’ said Carey.
Armstrong got up, and Harding said, ‘If he wants to talk let him. Join in but steer clear of specifics. Stick to generalities. Understand?’
Armstrong nodded and went out. Harding sat down and Carey studied him. Finally Carey said, ‘You look as though you could do with a drink, Doctor. Whisky?’
Harding nodded. ‘Thanks.’ He rubbed his. forehead. ‘Denison is in a bad way.’
Carey poured two ounces of whisky into a glass. ‘How?’
‘He’s been tampered with,’ said Harding flatly.
Carey handed him the glass. ‘His mind?’
Harding sank half the whisky and choked a little. He held out the glass. ‘I’ll have water in the other half. Yes. Someone has been bloody ruthless about it. He has a week missing, and whatever was done to him was done in that week.’
Carey frowned. ‘Iredale suggested he’d been unconscious all that week.’
‘It’s not incompatible,’ said Harding. ‘He was probably kept in a mentally depressed state by drugs during the whole week.’
‘Are you talking about brain-washing?’ asked McCready sceptically.
‘In a manner of speaking.’ Harding accepted his refilled glass. ‘Whoever did this to Denison had a problem. The ideal would have been to get Denison into such a condition that he thought he was Meyrick – but that couldn’t be done.’ Harding paused for consideration. ‘At least, not in a week.’
‘You mean the possibility of such a thing is there?’ asked Carey incredulously.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Harding calmly. ‘It could be done. But this crowd didn’t have the time for that, so they had to go about it another way. As I see it, their problem was to put Denison in the hotel as Meyrick and to make sure he didn’t fly off the handle. They didn’t want him to take the next plane to London, for instance. So they treated him.’ From Harding’s mouth the emphasis was an obscenity.
‘How?’ said Carey.
‘Do you know anything about hypnosis?’
McCready snorted and Harding, staring at him with suddenly flinty eyes, said coldly, ‘No, it is not witchcraft, Mr McCready. Denison was kept in a drug-induced hypnogogic state for a long time, and in that period his psyche was deliberately broken down.’ He made a suddenly disarming gesture. ‘I suspect Denison was already neurotically inclined and no doubt there were many ready-made tools to hand – irrational fears, half-healed traumas and so on – to aid in the process.’
‘What do you mean by neurotically inclined?’ asked Carey.
‘It’s hard to say, but I suspect that he was already a disturbed man before this was done to him.’
‘Off his head?’ interjected McCready.
Harding gave him a look of dislike. ‘No more than yourself, Mr McCready,’ he said tartly. ‘But I think something had happened which threw him off balance.’
‘Something did happen,’ said Carey. ‘He lost his job.’ He took a thin sheaf of papers from the file. ‘I didn’t have time to discuss this with you before, but this is what we have on Denison. There’ll be more coming but this is what we’ve got now.’
Harding studied the typed sheets, reading slowly and carefully. He said, ‘I wish I’d seen this before I went in to Denison; it would have saved a lot of trouble.’
‘He was a film director for a small specialist outfit making documentary and advertising films,’ said Carey. ‘Apparently he went off the rails and cost the firm a packet of money. They thought his drinking had got out of hand, so they fired him.’
Harding shook his head. ‘That wasn’t what threw him off balance. The drinking must have been a symptom, not a cause.’ He turned back a page. ‘I see that his wife died three years ago. She must have been quite young. Have you any idea how she died?’
‘Not yet,’ said Carey. ‘But I can find out.’
‘It would be advisable. I wonder if it was about that time he started to drink heavily.’
‘That isn’t the present point at issue,’ said Carey.
Harding’s voice took on an edge. ‘It is for me,’ he said curtly. ‘I have to treat the man.’
Carey’s voice was soothing. ‘I know, Doctor, and you shall have all the relevant information as soon as we get it ourselves. But my present interest is in what was done to Denison and how it was done.’
Harding was placated. ‘Very well. Denison was literally dismantled. All he retained was a name and a location – and the location wasn’t very exact. Giles Denison of Hampstead. They could, of course, have induced complete amnesia, but that wouldn’t do because Denison had to substitute for Meyrick and he would need enough active personality to carry out the role. Why Denison had to act as Meyrick I don’t know.’
‘I have ideas on that,’ said Carey. ‘Go on, Doctor.’
‘At the same time Denison must not retain too much personality, certainly not enough for him to reject the persona that had been thrust upon him. He had to be kept in a sort of limbo. There were some very strong blocks inserted into his mind to the effect that he should not question his origins. In addition, to confuse the issue, he has been given selective false memories. For instance, he distinctly remembers playing a game of golf, but at the same time he knows that he has never played a game of golf in his life. So he is a very confused man and this leads to a paralysis of the will, enough to make him stay in one place – a hotel in Oslo – while he tries to sort things out.’
McCready stirred restlessly. ‘Is all this possible?’
‘Quite possible. If I draw an imaginary square on the floor of this room I could hypnotize you into avoiding it by a post-hypnotic suggestion. You could spend the rest of your life coming in and out of this room but you would never walk on that imaginary square. More to the point, you would not be aware of the irrationality of your behaviour.’
McCready looked sceptical, and Harding said, ‘I’m willing to give you a demonstration at any time.’
‘No!’ said McCready hurriedly. ‘I believe you.’
Carey smiled grimly. ‘Carry on, Doctor.’
‘The mind is a self-stabilizing organism,’ said Harding. ‘If it wasn’t we’d all go crazy. And to inquire is basic. When Denison did try to delve into his past life he encountered the blocks and was so shocked at the impossibility of what he found in his own mind that he took refuge in a fugue.’ He saw the incomprehension on Carey’s face, and said simply, ‘He fell asleep. A typical hysterical symptom. He did it twice when he was talking to me. I let him sleep for a quarter of an hour each time, and when he woke up he’d forgotten the reason for it – wiped it out of his mind. It’s a self-protective mechanism against insanity, and I rather think it’s happened to him before.’
‘I don’t think I’ve got this straight,’ said Carey. ‘You’re saying that Denison is half out of his mind and likely to fall asleep – or unconscious – at any time. How do you square that with the fact that he pulled the wool over one of my people’s eyes very successfully, and that he encountered a very tricky situation which might have been the death of him and coped with it very well?’
‘Oh, he’s quite competent,’ said Harding. ‘It’s only when he tries to question his own past that he faces the impossible and goes into a fugue. Judging by what you told me of the manner in which he was wounded I’d say that he’s more competent than I would have expected under the circumstances.’
‘He’s bloody competent,’ said McCready suddenly, and Carey turned to look at him. ‘I haven’t told you this, but he’s tagged Mrs Hansen.’
‘He’s what?’
‘He knows she carries a gun – he told me so. He said he thought I ought to know.’
Harding wore an I-told-you-so expression and Carey’s face was a study in bafflement. ‘Another thing,’ said McCready. ‘Alcoholic or not, he’s on the wagon now. Mrs Hansen said he tried a whisky last night and he gave the impression that he’d swallowed prussic acid.’
‘Interesting,’ said Harding. ‘The man’s mind has been stirred like porridge. It would be remarkable if it has cured his alcoholism. However, I’m afraid the cure is much worse than the complaint. He’ll have to be hospitalized, of course. I can make the arrangements for that.’
Carey stood up. ‘Thank you, Dr Harding.’
Harding also arose. ‘I’d like to see him again tomorrow. What’s going to happen to him now?’
‘I’ll take good care of him,’ said Carey smoothly.
‘You’d better,’ warned Harding. ‘If he doesn’t get skilled attention he’s quite likely to go insane.’ He yawned. ‘Well, I’m off to bed.’
He left the room and Carey sat down again. He picked up the two photographs and brooded over them. McCready said, ‘That’s it, then; the whole thing’s a bust. No Meyrick – no operation.’
Carey did not say anything, and McCready asked, ‘What are you thinking?’
Carey said slowly, ‘I’m thinking that, while we may not have Meyrick, we’ve got a bloody good substitute.’
McCready’s jaw dropped. ‘You mean you want to hang on to him? You heard what Harding just said – the man’s likely to go crazy. It’s not what I’d call ethical.’
‘Don’t talk to me about ethics,’ said Carey harshly. ‘I have a job to do.’ He threw down the photographs. ‘Iredale wants to give Denison his face back, and Harding wants to restore his past. If we let Harding at him tomorrow with his tricky bloody hypnotism then Denison is going to pick up his marbles and go home.’
He frowned and came to a decision. ‘Take him back to the hotel,’ he said abruptly.
‘For Christ’s sake!’ said McCready. ‘Do you know what you’re doing?’
‘I know,’ said Carey. ‘But just work this one out while you’re taking Denison back. When the attempt was being made on Denison’s life at the Spiralen who was being attacked – Denison or Meyrick?’
McCready opened his mouth slowly while his mind spun. Carey said, ‘Denison must be watched. The guard on his room stays and I want somebody outside keeping an eye on his window. And I want that whole bloody hotel sewn up tight. Now get cracking.’
McCready dropped Denison off in the garage of the hotel. ‘I won’t come up,’ he said. ‘But I’ll see you tomorrow.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Which is today. God, it’s nearly five o’clock in the morning. You get to bed.’
They had both been silent during the short drive. Now Denison said, ‘What was all that about? I understood the first doctor, but the second was a psychiatrist, wasn’t he?’
McCready said, ‘Carey will be seeing you tomorrow. He’ll explain everything.’ He paused, biting his lip. ‘I promise you.’
‘All right,’ said Denison. ‘I’m too tired to argue now. But Carey had better come up with something good.’ He nodded to McCready and walked towards the stairs. He did not look back, but if he had and if he had been able to interpret the look in McCready’s eyes he might have recognized compassion.
Denison opened the door leading into the hotel lobby and saw suitcases stacked into a pile. There was a peal of laughter from the group of early arrivals, a crowd of young people who adorned the lobby like butterflies. He walked towards the porter’s desk and stood waiting while the overworked night porter did his best to deal with the rush.
At last, Denison caught his eye, and said, Three-sixty, please.’
‘Yes, Mr Meyrick.’ The porter unhooked the key.
Denison did not see the girl who stared at him in surprise, but heard the cool voice behind him saying, ‘Daddy!’ He turned leisurely and was suddenly and horrifyingly aware that the young woman was addressing him.
ELEVEN (#ulink_d14622c6-1fdb-5131-81c8-c0d7df8c04e1)
It was greatly to Denison’s credit that he did not panic. His first impulse was to step back and deny he was Meyrick – that it was a question of mistaken identity. Hard on that decision came the realization that it would not do; the night porter knew his name and was within earshot, and, in any case, a disclaimer in the hotel lobby was sure to create a fuss. He cancelled the impulse.
She was kissing him and he felt his own lips hard and unresponsive. Perhaps it was his lack of reaction that caused her to step back, the smile fading from her face. She said, ‘I was hoping to find you here, but I hardly expected to run into you in the same hotel – and at five in the morning. What are you doing up so early – or so late?’
She was young – not much more than twenty – and had the clear eyes and clear skin of youth. Her eyes were grey and her mouth wide and generous, perhaps too wide for perfect beauty. To the untutored male eye she wore no make-up but perhaps that was a tribute to skill.
He swallowed. ‘I was visiting a friend; the talk tended to go on a bit.’
‘Oh.’ She thrust her hands deep into the pockets of her motoring coat and turned her head to look at the harassed porter. ‘It’s going to take hours before I get my room. Can I freshen up in yours? I must look a sight.’
His mouth was dry and, for a moment, he could not speak. She looked at him curiously. ‘You are staying here?’ Then she laughed. ‘Of course you are; you have the key in your hand.’
‘I just have to make a telephone call,’ he said, and stepped away slightly, disengaging himself.
‘Why not from the room?’
‘It’s just as easy from down here.’ He walked away to the public telephones, fumbling in his pocket for coins.
The public telephones were not in booths but were surrounded by large transparent plastic hoods which theoretically would keep conversations private. He was aware that the girl had followed him and was standing close by. He took out his wallet, extracted a slip of paper, and dialled the number. The ringing sound buzzed in his ear six times, and then a voice said, ‘Yes?’
He kept his voice low. ‘I want Carey.’
‘You’ll have to speak up. I can’t hear you.’
He raised his voice a little. ‘I want to talk to Carey.’
Doubtfully: ‘I don’t think that’s possible. He’s in bed.’
‘I don’t care if he’s in his coffin. Get him up. This is Denison.’
There was a sharp intake of breath. ‘Right!’
In a remarkably short time Carey came on the line. ‘Denison?’
‘It’s trouble. Meyrick’s …’
Carey cut in with a voice like gravel. ‘How did you know to ring this number?’
‘For God’s sake! That can wait.’
‘How did you know?’ insisted Carey.
‘There was a telephone in the room where I saw the doctors,’ said Denison. ‘I took the number off that.’
‘Oh!’ said Carey. Then, with grudging respect, ‘Harding said you were competent; now I believe him. All right; what’s your problem?’
‘Meyrick’s daughter has just pitched up at the hotel.’
The telephone blasted in his ear. ‘What!’
‘What the hell am I to do?’ said Denison desperately. ‘I don’t even know her bloody name.’
‘Jesus H. Christ!’ said Carey. ‘Wait a minute.’ There was a confused murmur and then Carey said, ‘Her name is Lyn – L-Y-N.’
‘Do you know anything else about her?’
‘How the devil would I?’ demanded Carey. ‘Not off the top of my head.’
‘Damn you!’ said Denison violently. ‘I have to talk to this girl. I must know something about her. She’s my daughter.’
‘Is she there now?’
Denison looked sideways through the plastic hood. ‘She’s standing within ten feet of me. I’m in the hotel lobby and I don’t know how soundproof this canopy is. She wants to come to my room.’
‘I’ll do what I can,’ said Carey. ‘Hold on.’
‘Make it quick.’ Out of the corner of his eye he saw the girl walking towards him. He put his head around the edge of the hood, and said, ‘I won’t be a minute, Lyn. Is there anything you want to take up to the room?’
‘Oh, yes; my little travelling bag. I’ll go and get it.’
He watched her walk across the lobby with a bouncing stride, and felt the sweat break out on his forehead. Carey came back on the line. ‘Margaret Lyn Meyrick – but she prefers Lyn – Meyrick’s daughter by his first wife.’
Denison digested that, and said quickly, ‘Is her mother still alive?’
‘Yes – divorced and remarried.’
‘Name?’
‘Patricia Joan Metford – her husband is John Howard Metford; he’s something in the City.’
‘What about Meyrick’s present wife?’
‘There isn’t one. Also divorced three years ago. Her name was Janet Meyrick, née Austin.’
‘About the girl – what does she do? Her work? Her hobbies?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Carey. ‘All this stuff is from Meyrick’s dossier. We didn’t delve into the daughter.’
‘You’d better get something fast,’ said Denison. ‘Look, Carey; I don’t know why I’m doing this for you. My impulse right now is to blow the whole thing.’
‘Don’t do that,’ said Carey quickly. ‘I’ll get as much information on the Meyrick girl as I can and I’ll let you have it as soon as possible.’
‘How?’
‘I’ll send it in a sealed envelope by special messenger; she doesn’t have to know what’s on the sheet of paper you’re reading. And if things get too tough I’ll find a way of separating her from you. But, Denison – don’t blow your cover, whatever you do.’
There was a pleading quality in Carey’s voice and Carey, in Denison’s brief experience of him, was not a man who was used to pleading. Denison thought it a good opportunity to turn the screw. ‘I’ve been given the fast run around by you ever since this … this indecent thing was done to me. Now I want an explanation – a full explanation – and it had better be good.’ He was aware that his voice had risen and that he was in danger of becoming hysterical.
‘You’ll get your explanation today,’ promised Carey. ‘Now do your best to handle that girl.’
‘I don’t know if I can. It’s one thing fooling a stranger and another to try it on a member of Meyrick’s family.’
‘We may be lucky,’ said Carey. ‘I don’t think they were too close. I think she was brought up by her mother.’
Denison turned to face the lobby. ‘I’ll have to go now – the girl’s coming.’ He put down the telephone and heard a faint, squawking noise just before the connection was broken. It sounded as though Carey had said, ‘Good luck!’
He walked away from the telephone as she approached. ‘All finished.’
She fell into step with him. ‘You looked as if you were having an argument.’
‘Did I?’
‘I know you’re an argumentative type, but I wondered who you’d found to argue with at five o’clock in the morning in the middle of Oslo.’
They stopped in front of the lifts and Denison pressed the button. ‘Where have you just come from?’
‘Bergen. I hired a car and drove over. Most of yesterday and all night.’ She sighed. ‘I feel a bit pooped.’
He kept his voice neutral. ‘Travelling alone?’
‘Yes.’ She smiled, and said, ‘Wondering about a boyfriend?’
He nodded towards the thinning group in the lobby. ‘I just thought you were with that lot.’ The lift arrived and they stepped inside. ‘No wonder you’re tired if you did all that driving. What it is to be young.’
‘Right now I feel as old as Methuselah,’ she said glumly. ‘It’s the hunger that does it. I’ll feel better after breakfast, I dare say.’
He risked a probe. ‘How old are you, Lyn? I tend to lose track.’
‘Yes, you do, don’t you? You even forgot my twenty-first – or did you forget?’ There was an unexpected bitterness in her voice. ‘Any father who could do that …’ She stopped and bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry, Daddy. It’s my birthday next week.’
‘That’s all right.’ There was an undercurrent of antagonism Denison did not understand. He hesitated, and said, ‘Anyway, you’re old enough to stop calling me Daddy. What’s wrong with Harry?’
She looked at him in surprise and then impulsively squeezed his hand.
They had arrived at the room door and he unlocked it. ‘Bedroom straight ahead – bathroom to the left.’
She walked ahead of him into the bedroom and put down the travelling bag. ‘The bathroom for me,’ she said. ‘I want to wash off some of the grime.’ She opened the bag, picked out a couple of small articles, and disappeared into the bathroom.
He heard the sound of water as she turned on a tap and then he picked up the telephone. ‘This is room three-sixty. If there are any messages for Meyrick – or anything at all – I want to know immediately.’ He put down the telephone and looked contemplatively at the travelling bag.
The bathroom noises continued so he crossed the room quickly and looked into the bag. It was more neatly packed than he had expected which made it easier to search. He saw the blue cover of a British passport and took it out and turned the pages. It was Lyn Meyrick’s birthday on July 21, and she would be twenty-two. Her occupation was given as teacher.
He put the passport back and took out a book of traveller’s cheques. As he flicked through them he whistled softly; the Meyrick family did not believe in stinting themselves. There was a wallet fitted with acetate envelopes which contained credit cards and photographs. He had no time to examine these in detail because he thought she might come out of the bathroom at any moment.
He thrust back the wallet and zipped open a small interior pocket in the bag. It contained the key for a rented car and a bunch of smaller keys. As he zipped it closed he heard all sound cease in the bathroom and, when she emerged, he was standing by the armchair taking off his jacket.
‘That’s much better,’ she said. She had taken off the motoring coat and, in lime green sweater and stretch pants, she looked very trim. ‘When is the earliest I can order breakfast?’
He checked his watch. ‘Not much before half past six, I think. Perhaps the night porter can rustle up sandwiches and coffee.’
She frowned and sat on the bed. ‘No, I’ll wait and have a proper breakfast.’ Blinking her eyes, she said, ‘I still feel as though I’m driving.’
‘You shouldn’t push so hard.’
‘That isn’t what you told me the last time we met.’
Denison did not know what to make of that, so he said neutrally. ‘No.’ The silence lengthened. ‘How’s your mother?’ he asked.
‘She’s all right,’ said Lyn indifferently. ‘But, my God, he’s such a bore.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, he just sits in an office and makes money. Oh, I know you’re rich, but you made money by making things. He just makes money.’
Denison presumed that ‘he’ was John Howard Metford who was ‘something in the City’. ‘Metford isn’t such a bad chap,’ he said.
‘He’s a bore,’ she said definitely. ‘And it isn’t what you said about him last time.’
Denison decided against making gratuitous judgements. ‘How did you know I was here?’ he asked.
‘I got it out of Andrews,’ she said. ‘When he told me you were in Scandinavia I knew you’d be here or in Helsinki.’ She seemed suddenly nervous. ‘Now I’m not sure I should have come.’
Denison realized he was standing over her. He sat in the armchair and, perhaps in response, she stretched out on the bed. ‘Why not?’ he asked.
‘You can’t be serious when you ask that.’ Her voice was bitter. ‘I still remember the flaming row we had two years ago – and when you didn’t remember my twenty-first birthday I knew you hadn’t forgotten. But, of course, you didn’t forget my birthday – you never forget anything.’
He was getting into deep water. ‘Two years is a long time,’ he said platitudinously. He would have to learn how to speak like a politician – saying a lot and meaning nothing.
‘You’ve changed,’ she said. ‘You’re … you’re milder.’
That would never do. ‘I can still be acid when I want to be.’ He smiled. ‘Perhaps I’m just becoming older and, maybe, wiser.’
‘You always were wise,’ said Lyn. ‘If only you weren’t so bloody right all the time. Anyway, I wanted to tell you something to your face. I was disappointed when I found you weren’t in England, so I rushed over here.’ She hesitated. ‘Give me a cigarette.’
‘I’ve stopped smoking.’
She stared at him. ‘You have changed.’
‘Temporarily,’ he said, and stretched out his hand to open a drawer in the dressing-table. He took out the gold cigarette case and the lighter and offered her a cigarette. ‘I’ve had a bad head cold.’
She took a cigarette and he lit it. ‘That never stopped you before.’ She drew on the cigarette nervously and blew a plume of smoke. ‘I suppose you’re surprised I’m not smoking a joint.’
Denison suspected that he was encountering something of which hitherto he had only heard – the generation gap. He said, ‘Stop talking nonsense, Lyn. What’s on your mind?’
‘Direct and to the point as usual. All right – I’ve taken my degree.’
She looked at him expectantly and he was aware that she had dropped a bombshell. How he was supposed to react to it he did not know, but the damned thing had better be defused carefully. However, taking a degree was usually a matter for congratulation, so he said, ‘That’s good news, Lyn.’
She regarded him warily. ‘You mean it?’
‘It’s the best news I’ve heard for a long time.’
She seemed relieved. ‘Mother thought it was silly. She said that with all the money I’m going to have why should I worry about working – especially with a lot of snotty-nosed East End kids. You know what she’s like. And the Bore didn’t care one way or another.’ For a moment she sounded pathetic. ‘Do you really mean it?’
‘Of course I do.’ He found he was really glad for her and that put sincerity into his voice.
‘Oh, Daddy; I’m so glad!’ She scrambled off the bed and went to her bag. ‘Look what it says in here. I had to get a new passport, anyway.’ She opened the passport and displayed it ‘Occupation – teacher!’ she said proudly.
He looked up. ‘Was it a good degree?’
She made a wry face. ‘Middling-good.’ There was no smile on her face now. ‘I suppose you think a Meyrick should have passed with honours.’
Mentally he damned Meyrick who, apparently, set a superhuman standard. This girl was set on a hair trigger and his slightest word could cause an explosion in which somebody would get hurt – probably Lyn. ‘I’m very glad you’ve got your degree,’ he said evenly. ‘Where are you going to teach?’
The tension eased from her and she lay on the bed again. ‘First I need experience,’ she said seriously. ‘General experience. Then I want to specialize. After that, if I’m going to have a lot of money I might as well put it to use.’
‘How?’
‘I’ll have to know more about what I’m doing before I can tell you that.’
Denison wondered how this youthful idealism would stand up to the battering of the world. Still, a lot could be done with enthusiasm and money. He smiled, and said, ‘You seem to have settled on a lifetime plan. Is there room in the programme for marriage and a family?’
‘Of course; but he’ll have to be the right man – he’ll have to want what I want.’ She shrugged. ‘So far no one like that has come my way. The men at university could be divided into two classes; the stodges who are happy with the present system, and the idealists who aren’t. The stodges are already working out their retirement pensions before they get a job and the idealists are so damned naive and impractical. Neither of them suit me.’
‘Someone will come along who will,’ predicted Denison.
‘How can you be so sure?’
He laughed. ‘How do you suppose the population explosion came about? Men and women usually get together somehow. It’s in the nature of the animal.’
She put out her cigarette and lay back and closed her eyes. ‘I’m prepared to wait.’
‘My guess is that you won’t have to wait long.’ She did not respond and he regarded her intently. She had fallen asleep as readily as a puppy might, which was not surprising considering she had been up all night. So had he, but sleep was the last thing he could afford.
He put on his jacket and took the keys from the zippered compartment of her bag. In the lobby he saw two suitcases standing before the desk and, after checking to make sure they were Lyn’s, he said to the porter, ‘I’d like these taken to my daughter’s room. What’s the number?’
‘Did she have a reservation, Mr Meyrick?’
‘It’s possible.’
The porter checked and took down a key. ‘Room four-thirty. I’ll take the bags up.’
In Lyn’s room Denison tipped the porter and put the two cases on the bed as soon as the door closed. He took out the keys and unlocked them and searched them quickly, trying not to disturb the contents too much. There was little that was of value to him directly, but there were one or two items which cast a light on Lyn Meyrick. There was a photograph of himself – or, rather, of Harry Meyrick – in a leather case. The opposing frame was empty. In a corner of one suitcase was a small Teddy-bear, tattered with much childish loving and presumably retained as a mascot. In the other suitcase he found two textbooks, one on the theory and practice of teaching, the other on child psychology; both heavyweights, the pages sprinkled with diagrams and graphs.
He closed and locked the suitcases and put them on the rack, then went down to his own room. As the lift door opened on to the third floor he saw Armstrong just stepping out of the other lift. Armstrong held out an envelope. ‘Mr Carey told me to give you this.’
Denison ripped open the envelope and scanned the sparse typescript on the single sheet. The only thing it told him that he had not learned already was that Lyn Meyrick’s sport was gymnastics. ‘Carey will have to do better than this,’ he said curtly.
‘We’re doing the best we can,’ said Armstrong. ‘We’ll get more later in the day when people have woken up in England.’
‘Keep it coming,’ said Denison. ‘And don’t forget to remind Carey that I’m still waiting for an explanation.’
‘I’ll tell him,’ said Armstrong.
‘Another thing,’ said Denison. ‘She said she’d find me either here in Oslo or in Helsinki in Finland. That baffled me until I realized I don’t know a bloody thing about Meyrick. Carey mentioned a dossier on Meyrick – I want to see it.’
‘I don’t think that will be possible,’ said Armstrong hesitantly. ‘You’re not cleared for security.’
Denison speared him with a cold eye. ‘You bloody fool!’ he said quietly. ‘Right now I am your security – and don’t forget to tell Carey that, too.’ He walked past Armstrong and up the corridor to his room.
TWELVE (#ulink_4748f8ca-5471-5318-a593-d0bb6964fbe3)
Carey walked past the Oslo City Hall in the warm mid-afternoon sunshine and inspected the statuary with a sardonic eye. Each figure represented a different trade and the whole, no doubt, was supposed to represent the Dignity of Labour. He concluded that the Oslo City Fathers must have been socialist at one time.
He sat on a bench and looked out over the harbour and Oslofjord. A ship slid quietly by – the ferry bound for Copenhagen – and there was a constant coming and going of smaller, local ferries bound for Bygdøy, Ingierstrand and other places on the fjord. Camera-hung tourists strolled by and a tour bus stopped, disgorging more of them.
McCready walked up and sat on the bench. Carey did not look at him but said dreamily, ‘Once my job was easy – just simple eyeball stuff. That was back in the days when Joshua sent his spies into the land of Caanan. Then the bloody scientists got busy and ballsed the whole thing up.’
McCready said nothing; he had encountered Carey in this mood before and knew there was nothing to do but wait until Carey got it off his chest.
‘Do you realize the state we’ve got ourselves into now?’ asked Carey rhetorically. ‘I think you’re George McCready, but I could be wrong. What’s more, you could think you’re George McCready and, if Harding is to be believed, still be wrong. How the hell am I supposed to cope with a situation like that?’
He disregarded McCready’s opening mouth. ‘The bloody boffins are lousing up the whole damned world,’ he said violently, and pointed towards the line of statuary. ‘Look at that crowd of working stiffs. There’s not a trade represented there that isn’t obsolete or obsolescent. Pretty soon they’ll put up a statue of me; there’ll be a plaque saying “Intelligence agent, Mark II” and my job’ll be farmed out to a hot-shot computer. Where’s Denison?’
‘Asleep in the hotel.’
‘And the girl?’
‘Also asleep – in her own room.’
‘If he’s had five minutes’ sleep that’s five minutes more than I’ve had. Let’s go and wake the poor bastard up. Mrs Hansen will join us at the hotel.’
He stood up, and McCready said, ‘How much are you going to tell him?’
‘As much as I have to and no more,’ said Carey shortly. ‘Which may be more than I want to tell him. He’s already putting the screws on me through young Ian. He wants to see Meyrick’s dossier.’
‘You can’t expect him to carry out an impersonation without knowing something of Meyrick,’ said McCready reasonably.
‘Why did that damned girl have to turn up?’ grumbled Carey. ‘As though we don’t have enough trouble. I had a row with Harding this morning.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘George – I have no option. With Meyrick gone I have to use Denison. I’ll play fair; I’ll tell him the truth – maybe not all of it, but what I tell him will be true – and let him make up his own mind. And if he wants out that’s my hard luck.’
McCready noticed the reservation and shook his head. The truth, in Carey’s hands, could take on a chameleon-like quality. Denison did not stand a chance.
Carey said, ‘Something Iredale told me gave me the shudders. This silicone stuff that was rammed into Denison’s face is a polymer; it’s injected in liquid form and then it hardens in the tissues to the consistency of fat – and it’s permanent. If Denison wants to get his own face back it will be a major surgical operation – they’ll have to take his face apart to scrape the stuff out.’
McCready grimaced. ‘I take it that’s a part of the truth you’re not going to tell him.’
‘That – and a few other titbits from Harding.’ Carey stopped. ‘Well, here’s the hotel. Let’s get it over with.’
Denison woke from a deep sleep to hear hammering on his door. He got up groggily, put on the bathrobe, and opened the door. Carey said, ‘Sorry to waken you, but it’s about time we had a talk.’
Denison blinked at him. ‘Come in.’ He turned and went into the bathroom, and Carey, McCready and Mrs Hansen walked through into the bedroom. When Denison reappeared he was wiping his face with a towel. He stared at Diana Hansen. ‘I might have known.’
‘You two know each other,’ said Carey. ‘Mrs Hansen was keeping tabs on Meyrick.’ He drew back the curtain, letting sunlight spill into the room, and tossed an envelope on to the dressing-table. ‘Some more stuff on the girl. We have quite a few people in England running about in circles on your behalf.’
‘Not mine,’ corrected Denison. ‘Yours!’ He put down the towel. ‘Any moment from now she’s going to start playing “Do you remember when?” No information you can give me will help in that sort of guessing game.’
‘You’ll just have to develop a bad memory,’ said McCready.
‘I need to know more about Meyrick,’ insisted Denison.
‘And I’m here to tell you.’ Carey pulled the armchair forward. ‘Sit down and get comfortable. This is going to take a while.’ He sat in the other chair and pulled out a stubby pipe which he started to fill. McCready and Diana Hansen sat on the spare bed.
Carey struck a match and puffed at his pipe. ‘Before we start on Meyrick you ought to know that we discovered how, and when, the switch was made. We figured how we’d do a thing like that ourselves and then checked on it. You were brought in on a stretcher on July 8 and put in room three-sixty-three, just across the corridor. Meyrick was probably knocked out by a Mickey Finn in his nightly Ovaltine or something like that, and the switch was made in the wee, small hours.’
‘Meyrick was taken out next morning before you woke up,’ said McCready. ‘He was put into an ambulance, the hotel management co-operating, and driven to Pier Two at Vippetangen where he was put aboard a ship sailing to Copenhagen. Another ambulance was waiting there which took him God knows where.’
Carey said, ‘If you’d contacted the Embassy as soon as it happened we’d have been able to work all that out so damned fast that we could have been waiting at Copenhagen.’
‘For God’s sake!’ said Denison. ‘Would you have believed me any the quicker? It took you long enough to check anyway with your doctor and your tame psychiatrist.’
‘He’s right,’ said McCready.
‘Do you think that’s why it was done this way? To buy time?’
‘Could be,’ said McCready. ‘It worked, didn’t it?’
‘Oh, it worked all right. What puzzles me is what happened at the Spiralen the next day.’ Carey turned to Denison. ‘Have you got the doll and the note?’
Denison opened a drawer and handed them to Carey. He unfolded the single deckle-edged sheet and read the note aloud. ‘“Your Drammen Dolly awaits you at Spiraltoppen. Early morning. July 10.”’ He lifted the paper and sniffed delicately. ‘Scented, too. I thought that went out in the 1920s.’
Diana Hansen said, ‘This is the first I’ve heard of a note. I know about the doll, but not the note.’
‘It’s what took Denison to the Spiralen,’ said McCready.
‘Could I see it?’ said Diana, and Carey passed it to her. She read it and said pensively, ‘It could have been …’
‘What is it, Mrs Hansen?’ said Carey sharply.
‘Well, when Meyrick and I went to Drammen last week we lunched at the Spiraltoppen Restaurant.’ She looked a little embarrassed. ‘I had to go to the lavatory and I was away rather a long time. I had stomach trouble – some kind of diarrhoea.’
McCready grinned. ‘Even Intelligence agents are human,’ he said kindly.
‘When I got back Meyrick was talking to a woman and they seemed to be getting on well together. When I came up she went away.’
‘That’s all?’ asked Carey.
‘That’s all.’
He regarded her thoughtfully. ‘I think there’s something you’re not telling us, Mrs Hansen.’
‘Well, it’s something about Meyrick. I was with him quite a lot during the last few weeks and he gave me the impression of being something of a womanizer – perhaps even a sexual athlete.’
A chuckle escaped from McCready. ‘Did he proposition you?’
‘He had as many arms as an octopus,’ she said. ‘I thought I wasn’t going to last out this operation without being raped. I think he’d go for anything on two legs that wore skirts, with the possible exception of Scotsmen – and I wouldn’t be too sure of that.’
‘Well, well,’ said Carey. ‘How little we know of our fellow men.’
Denison said, ‘He was divorced twice.’
‘So you think this note was to set up an assignation.’
‘Yes,’ said Diana.
‘But Meyrick wouldn’t have fallen for that, no matter how horny he was,’ said Carey. ‘He was too intelligent a man. When you and he went to Drammen last week he checked with me according to instructions. Since you were going with him I gave him the okay.’
‘Did Meyrick know Diana was working for you?’ asked Denison.
Carey shook his head. ‘No – we like to play loose. But Meyrick didn’t find the note.’ He pointed his pipe stem at Denison. ‘You did – and you went to the Spiralen. Tell me, did the men who attacked you give the impression that they wanted to capture or to kill you?’
‘I didn’t stop to ask them,’ said Denison acidly.
‘Um,’ said Carey, and lapsed into thought, his pipe working overtime. After a while he stirred, and said, ‘All right, Mrs Hansen; I think that’s all.’
She nodded briefly and left the room, and Carey glanced at McCready. ‘I suppose we must tell him about Meyrick.’
McCready grinned. ‘I don’t see how you can get out of it.’
‘I have to know,’ said Denison, ‘if I’m going to carry on with this impersonation.’
‘I trust Mrs Hansen and she doesn’t know,’ said Carey. ‘Not the whole story. I work on the “need to know” principle.’ He sighed. ‘I suppose you need to know, so here goes. The first thing to know about Meyrick is that he’s a Finn.’
‘With a name like that?’
‘Oddly enough, it’s his own name. In 1609 the English sent a diplomat to the court of Michael, the first Romanov Czar, to negotiate a trade treaty and to open up the fur trade. The courtiers of James I had to get their bloody ermine somewhere. The name of the diplomat was John Merick – or Meyrick – and he was highly philoprogenitive. He left by-blows all over the Baltic and Harry Meyrick is the end result of that.’
‘It seems that Harry takes after his ancestor,’ commented McCready.
Carey ignored him. ‘Of course, Meyrick’s name was a bit different in Finnish, but when he went to England he reverted to the family name. But that’s by the way.’ He laid down his pipe. ‘More to the point, Meyrick is a Karelian Finn; to be pedantic, if he’d stayed at home in the town where he was born he’d now be a Russian. How good is your modern history?’
‘Average I suppose,’ said Denison.
‘And that means bloody awful,’ observed Carey. ‘All right; in 1939 Russia attacked Finland and the Finns held them off in what was known as the Winter War. In 1941 Germany attacked Russia and the Finns thought it a good opportunity to have another go at the Russkies, which was a pity because that put them on the losing side. Still, it’s difficult to see what else they could have done.
‘At the end of this war, which the Finns know as the Continuation War, there was a peace treaty and the frontier was withdrawn. The old frontier was too close, to Leningrad, which had the Russians edgy. An artilleryman could stand in Finland and lob shells right into the middle of Leningrad, so the Russians took over the whole of the Karelian Isthmus, together with a few other bits and pieces. This put Meyrick’s home town, Enso, on the Russian side, and the Russians renamed it Svetogorsk.’
Carey sucked on his pipe which had gone out. It gurgled unpleasantly. ‘Am I making myself clear?’
‘You’re clear enough,’ said Denison. ‘But I want more than a history lesson.’
‘We’re getting there,’ said Carey. ‘Meyrick was seventeen at the end of the war. Finland was in a hell of a mess; all the Karelian Finns cleared out of the isthmus because they didn’t want to live under the Russians and this put the pressure on the rest of Finland because there was nowhere for them to go. The Finns had to work so bloody hard producing the reparations the Russians demanded that there was no money or men or time left over to build housing. So they turned to the Swedes and asked calmly if they’d take 100,000 immigrants.’ Carey snapped his fingers. ‘Just like that – and the Swedes agreed.’
Denison said, ‘Noble of them.’
Carey nodded. ‘So young Meyrick went to Sweden. He didn’t stay long because he came here, to Oslo, where he lived until he was twenty-four. Then he went to England. He was quite alone all this time – his family had been killed during the war – but as soon as he arrived in England he married his first wife. She had what he needed, which was money.’
‘Who doesn’t need money?’ asked McCready cynically.
‘We’ll get on faster if you stop asking silly questions,’ said Carey. ‘The second thing you have to know about Meyrick is that he’s a bright boy. He has a flair for invention, particularly in electronics, and he has something else which the run-of-the-mill inventor doesn’t have – the ability to turn his inventions into money. The first Mrs Meyrick had a few thousand quid which was all he needed to get started. When they got divorced he’d turned her into a millionairess and he’d made as much for himself. And he went on making it.’
Carey struck a match and applied it to his pipe. ‘By this time he was a big boy as well as a bright boy. He owned a couple of factories and was deep in defence contracts. There’s a lot of his electronics in the Anglo-French Jaguar fighter as well as in Concorde. He also did some bits and pieces for the Chieftain main battle tank. He’s now at the stage where he heads special committees on technical matters concerning defence, and the Prime Minister has pulled him into a Think Tank. He’s a hell of a big boy but the man-in-the-street knows nothing about him. Got the picture?’
‘I think so,’ said Denison. ‘But it doesn’t help me a damn.’
Carey blew a plume of smoke into the air. ‘I think Meyrick inherited his brains from his father, so let’s take a look at the old boy.’
Denison sighed. ‘Must we?’
‘It’s relevant,’ said Carey flatly. ‘Hannu Merikken was a physicist and, by all accounts, a good one. The way the story runs is that if he hadn’t been killed during the war he’d have been in line for the Nobel Prize. The war put a stop to his immediate researches and he went to work for the Finnish government in Viipuri, which was then the second biggest city in Finland. But it’s in Karelia and it’s now a Russian city and the Russians call it Vyborg.’ He looked at Denison’s closed eyes, and said sharply, ‘I trust I’m not boring you.’
‘Go on,’ said Denison. ‘I’m just trying to sort out all these names.’
‘Viipuri was pretty well smashed up during the war, including the laboratory Merikken was working in. So he got the hell out of there and went home to Enso which is about thirty miles north of Viipuri. He knew by this time that no one was going to stop the Russians and he wanted to see to the safety of his papers. He’d done a lot of work before the war which hadn’t been published and he didn’t want to lose it.’
‘So what did he do?’ asked Denison. He was becoming interested.
‘He put all the papers into a metal trunk, sealed it, and buried it in the garden of his house. Young Harri Merikken – that’s our Harry Meyrick – helped him. The next day Hannu Merikken, his wife and his younger son, were killed by the same bomb, and if Harri had been in the house at the same time he’d have been killed, too.’
‘And the papers are important?’ said Denison.
‘They are,’ said Carey soberly. ‘Last year Meyrick was in Sweden and he bumped into a woman who had given him a temporary home when he’d been evacuated from Finland. She said she’d been rummaging about in the attic or whatever and had come across a box he’d left behind. She gave it to him. He opened it in his hotel that night and looked through it. Mostly he was amused by the things he found – the remnants of the enthusiasms of a seventeen-year-old. There were the schematics of a ham radio he’d designed – he was interested in electronics even then – some other drawings of a radio-controlled model aircraft, and things like that. But in the pages of an old radio magazine he found a paper in his father’s handwriting, and that suddenly made the papers buried in Merikken’s garden very important indeed.’
‘What are they about?’ asked Denison.
Carey ignored the question. ‘At first, Meyrick didn’t realize what he’d got hold of and he talked about it to a couple of scientists in Sweden. Then the penny dropped and he bolted back to England and began to talk to the right people – we’re lucky he was big enough to know who to talk to. The people he talked to got interested and, as an end result of a lot of quiet confabulation, I was brought in.’
‘The idea being to go and dig up the garden?’
‘That’s right. The only snag is that the garden is in Russia.’ Carey knocked out his pipe in the ashtray. ‘I have a couple of men scouting the Russian border right now. The idea was that as soon as they report, Meyrick and I would pop across and dig up the papers.’
McCready snapped his fingers. ‘As easy as walking down Piccadilly.’
‘But Meyrick was snatched,’ said Carey. ‘And you were substituted.’
‘Yes,’ said Denison heavily. ‘Why me?’
‘I don’t think we need to go too deeply into that,’ said Carey delicately. He did not want Denison to ruminate about his past life and go off into a fugue. ‘I think it could have been anybody who looked enough like Meyrick to need the least possible surgery.’
There was a whole list of other qualifications – someone who would not be missed too easily, someone who had the right psychological make-up, someone very easily accessible. It had been a job which had been carefully set up in England and back in London there was a team of ten men sifting through the minutiae of Denison’s life in the hope of coming up with a clue to his kidnapping. It was a pity that Denison could not be directly questioned but Harding was dead against it, and Carey had a need for Denison – he did not want an insane man on his hands.
‘Which brings us to the next step,’ said Carey. ‘Someone – call them Crowd X – has pinched Meyrick, but they’re not going to broadcast the fact. They don’t know if we’ve tumbled to the substitution or not – and we’re not going to tell them.’ He looked steadily at Denison. ‘Which is why we need your co-operation, Mr Denison.’
‘In what way?’ asked Denison cautiously.
‘We want you to carry on being Meyrick, and we want you to go to Finland.’
Denison’s jaw dropped. ‘But that’s impossible,’ he said. ‘I’d never get away with it. I can’t speak Finnish.’
‘You’ve got away with it up to now,’ pointed out Carey. ‘You fooled Mrs Hansen and you’re doing very well with Meyrick’s daughter. It’s quite true what Harding said – you’re very competent.’
‘But the language! Meyrick speaks Finnish.’
‘He speaks Finnish, Swedish, Norwegian and English fluently and idiomatically,’ said Carey easily. ‘His French passes but his Italian and Spanish aren’t too hot.’
‘Then how the hell can I get away with it?’ demanded Denison. ‘All I have is English and schoolboy French.’
‘Take it easy. Let me tell you a story.’ Carey began to fill his pipe again. ‘At the end of the First World War quite a number of the British troops married French wives and stayed in France. A lot of them were given jobs by the War Graves Commission – looking after the war cemeteries. Twenty years after, there came another war and another British Expeditionary Force. The new young soldiers found that the old soldiers had completely lost their English – their mother tongue – and could speak only French.’
He struck a match. ‘And that’s what’s going to happen to Meyrick. He hasn’t been back to Finland since he was seventeen; I don’t think it’s unreasonable to suppose he’d lose the language.’
‘But why do you want me? I can’t lead you to the papers – only Meyrick can do that.’
Carey said, ‘When this happened my first impulse was to abandon the operation, but then I started to think about it. Firstly, we don’t know that Meyrick was snatched because of this operation – it might have been for a different reason. In that case the papers are reasonably safe. Secondly, it occurred to me that you could be a good distracting influence – we could use you to confuse the opposition as much as they’ve confused us. If you go to Finland as Meyrick they won’t know what the hell to think. In the ensuing brouhaha we might get a chance at the papers. What do you think?’
‘I think you’re crazy,’ said Denison.
Carey shrugged. ‘Mine is a crazy profession – I’ve seen crazier ploys come off. Look at Major Martin – the man who never was.’
‘He didn’t have to stand up to questioning,’ said Denison. ‘The whole thing is bloody ridiculous.’
‘You’d be paid, of course,’ said Carey casually. ‘Well paid, as a matter of fact. You’d also get a compensatory grant for the injuries that have been done to you, and Mr Ireland is ready and willing to bring you back to normality.’
‘Dr Harding, too?’
‘Dr Harding, too,’ confirmed Carey. He wondered to what extent Denison knew his mental processes to be abnormal.
‘Suppose I turn you down,’ said Denison. ‘Do I still get the services of Iredale and Harding?’
McCready tensed, wondering what Carey would say. Carey placidly blew a smoke ring. ‘Of course.’
‘So it’s not a matter of blackmail,’ said Denison.
The unshockable Carey arranged his features in an expression of shock. ‘There is no question of blackmail,’ he said stiffly.
‘Why are Merikken’s papers so important? What’s in them?’
‘I can’t tell you that, Mr Denison,’ said Carey deliberately.
‘Can’t or won’t?’
Carey shrugged. ‘All right, then – won’t.’
‘Then I’m turning you down,’ said Denison.
Carey put down his pipe. ‘This is a question of state security, Denison; and we work on the principle of “need to know”. Mrs Hansen doesn’t need to know. Ian Armstrong doesn’t need to know. You don’t need to know.’
‘I’ve been kidnapped and stabbed,’ said Denison. ‘My face has been altered and my mind has been jiggered with.’ He raised his hand. ‘Oh, I know that – Harding got that much across – and I’m scared to the marrow about thinking of who I once was. Now you’re asking me to go on with this charade, to go to Finland and put myself in danger again.’ His voice was shaking. ‘And when I ask why you have the gall to tell me I don’t need to know.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Carey.
‘I don’t care how sorry you are. You can book me on a flight to London.’
‘Now who is using blackmail?’ said Carey ironically.
‘It’s a reasonable request,’ said McCready.
‘I know it is, damn it!’ Carey looked at Denison with cold eyes. ‘If you breathe a word of what I’m going to tell you you’ll be behind bars for the rest of your life. I’ll see to that personally. Understand?’
Denison nodded. ‘I’ve still got to know,’ he said stubbornly.
Carey forced the words through reluctant lips. He said slowly, ‘It seems that in 1937 or 1938 Hannu Merikken discovered a way of reflecting X-rays.’
Denison looked at him blankly. ‘Is that all?’
‘That’s all,’ said Carey curtly. He stood up and stretched. ‘It isn’t enough,’ said Denison. ‘What’s so bloody important about that?’
‘You’ve been told what you want to know. Be satisfied.’
‘It isn’t enough. I must know the significance.’
Carey sighed. ‘All right, George; tell him.’
‘I felt like that at first,’ said McCready. ‘Like you, I didn’t see what all the fuss was about. Merikken was doing a bit of pure research when he came across this effect before the war and in those days there wasn’t much use for it. All the uses of X-rays depended upon their penetrative power and who’d want to reflect them. So Merikken filed it away as curious but useless and he didn’t publish a paper on it.’
He grinned. ‘The joke is that now every defence laboratory in the world is working out how to reflect X-rays, but no one has figured out a way to do it.’
‘What happened to make it important?’ asked Denison.
‘The laser happened,’ said Carey in a voice of iron.
‘Do you know how a laser works?’ When Denison shook his head, McCready said, ‘Let’s have a look at the very first laser as it was invented in 1960. It was a rod of synthetic ruby about four inches long and less than half an inch in diameter. One end was silvered to form a reflective surface, and the other end was half-silvered. Coiled around the rod was a spiral gas discharge lamp something like the flash used in photography. Got that?’
‘All clear so far.’
‘There’s a lot more power in these electronic flashes than people imagine,’ said McCready. ‘For instance, an ordinary flash, as used by a professional photographer, develops about 4,000 horse power in the brief fraction of a second when the condensers discharge. The flash used in the early lasers was more powerful than that – let’s call it 20,000 horse power. When the flash is used the light enters the ruby rod and something peculiar happens; the light goes up and down the rod, reflected from the silvered ends, and all the light photons are brought in step with each other. The boffins call that coherent light, unlike ordinary light where all the photons are out of step.
‘Now, because the photons are in step the light pressure builds up. If you can imagine a crowd of men trying to batter down a door, they’re more likely to succeed if they charge at once than if they try singly. The photons are all charging at once and they burst out of the half-silvered end of the rod as a pulse of light – and that light pulse has nearly all the 20,000 horse power of energy that was put into the rod.’
McCready grinned. ‘The boffins had great fun with that. They discovered that it was possible to drill a hole through a razor blade at a range of six feet. At one time it was suggested that the power of a laser should be measured in Gillettes.’
‘Stick to the point,’ said Carey irritably.
‘The military possibilities were easily seen,’ said McCready. ‘You could use a laser as a range-finder, for instance. Fire it at a target and measure the light bouncing back and you could tell the range to an inch. There were other uses – but there was one dispiriting fact. The laser used light and light can be stopped quite easily. It doesn’t take much cloud to stop a beam of light, no matter how powerful it is.’
‘But X-rays are different,’ said Denison thoughtfully.
‘Right! It’s theoretically possible to make an X-ray laser, but for one snag. X-rays penetrate and don’t reflect. No one has found a way of doing it except Merikken who did it before the war – and the working of a laser depends entirely upon multiple reflection.’
Denison rubbed his chin, feeling the flabbiness. Already he was becoming used to it. ‘What would be the use of a gadget like that?’
‘Take a missile coming in at umpteen thousand miles an hour and loaded with an atomic warhead. You’ve got to knock it down so you use another missile like the American Sprint. But you don’t shoot your missile directly at the enemy missile – you aim it at where the enemy will be when your missile gets up there. That takes time to work out and a hell of a lot of computing power. With an X-ray laser you aim directly at the enemy missile because it operates with the speed of light – 186,000 miles a second – and you’d drill a hole right through it.’
‘Balls,’ said Carey. ‘You’d cut the damned thing in two.’
‘My God!’ said Denison. That’s a death ray.’ He frowned. ‘Could it be made powerful enough?’
‘Lasers have come a long way since the first one,’ said McCready soberly. ‘They don’t use the flash any more on the big ones – they pour in the power with a rocket engine. Already they’re up to millions of horse power – but it’s still ordinary light. With X-rays you could knock a satellite out of orbit from the ground.’
‘Now do you understand the significance?’ asked Carey. When Denison nodded, he said, ‘So what are you going to do about it?’
There was a long silence while Denison thought. Carey stood up and went to the window where he looked across to the Studenterlunden, his fingers drumming on the window sill. McCready lay back on the bed with his hands behind his head, and inspected the ceiling closely.
Denison stirred and unclasped his fingers. He straightened in his chair and stretched his arms, then he sighed deeply. My name is Harry Meyrick,’ he said.
THIRTEEN (#ulink_e7b08296-9267-5f51-9043-68511d27ca33)
Three days later Denison, descending for breakfast, bought a newspaper at the kiosk in the lobby and scanned it over coffee. Diana Hansen joined him, and said, ‘What’s new?’
He shrugged. ‘The world is still going to hell in a handcart. Listen to this. Item one. Two more skyjackings, one successful and one not. In the unsuccessful one – God save the mark – two passengers were killed. Item two – pollution. A tanker collision in the Baltic and a fifteen mile oil slick is drifting on to Gotland; the Swedes are understandably acid. Item three. There are strikes in Britain, France and Italy, with consequent riots in London, Paris and Milan. Item four …’ He raised his head. ‘… do you want me to go on?’
She sipped her coffee. ‘You sound a bit acid yourself.’
‘Just how would you feel in my circumstances?’ he asked a little grimly.
Diana shrugged. ‘Where’s Lyn?’
‘The young sleep late.’
‘I have a feeling she’s sharpening her claws, getting ready to scratch my eyes out,’ said Diana meditatively. ‘She’s made one or two odd remarks lately.’ She stretched over and patted Denison’s hand. ‘She thinks her daddy is getting into bad company.’
‘How right the child is.’
‘Child!’ Diana raised her eyebrows. ‘She’s only eight years younger than I am. She’s no child – she’s a healthy young woman with all her wits about her – so watch your step.’
Denison put his head on one side. ‘Of course!’ he said, somewhat surprised. Privately he thought that Diana was drawing the longbow a bit. He put her age at thirty-two which probably meant she was thirty-four; that would give her twelve years on Lyn, not much less than the fourteen years he had himself.
‘Carey wants to see you,’ said Diana. ‘If you leave the hotel, turn left and walk about three hundred yards, you’ll come to a place where they’re building a memorial or something. Be around there at ten o’clock.’
‘All right,’ said Denison.
‘And here’s your darling daughter.’ Diana raised her voice. ‘Good morning, Lyn.’
Denison turned and smiled appreciatively at Lyn’s chic appearance. It’s the money that makes the difference, he thought; the grand ideas of the rulers of the fashion world are apt to look tatty when filtered through the salary of a junior London typist. ‘Did you have a good night?’
‘Fine,’ said Lyn lightly, and sat down. ‘I didn’t expect to see you at breakfast, Mrs Hansen.’ She glanced sideways at Denison. ‘Did you sleep in the hotel last night?’
‘No, darling,’ said Diana sweetly. ‘I brought a message for your father.’
Lyn poured coffee. ‘What are we doing today?’
‘I have a business appointment this morning,’ said Denison. ‘Why don’t you two go shopping?’
A shadow briefly crossed Lyn’s face, but she said, ‘All right.’ Diana’s answering smile was sickly in its sweetness.
Denison found Carey with his rump buttressed by a coping stone and his back to the Royal Palace. He looked up at Denison’s approach and said brusquely, ‘We’re ready to move. Are you fit?’
Carey nodded. ‘How are you getting on with the girl?’
‘I’m tired of being Daddy,’ said Denison bitterly. ‘I’m only getting through by the skin of my teeth. She asks the damnedest questions.’
‘What’s she like?’
‘A nice kid in danger of being spoiled rotten – but for one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Her parents were divorced and it’s messed up her life. I’m beginning to realize what an unmitigated bastard Harry Meyrick is.’ He paused. ‘Or was.’ He looked at Carey. ‘Any news?’
Carey flapped his hand in negation. ‘Tell me more.’
‘Well, the mother is a rich bitch who ignores the girl. I don’t think Lyn would care if she dropped dead tomorrow. But Lyn has always had a respect for her father; she doesn’t like him but she respects him. She looks up to him like a … like a sort of God.’ Denison rubbed his chin and said meditatively, ‘I suppose people respect God, but do they really like him? Anyway, every time she tries to get near Meyrick he slaps her down hard. That’s no way to bring up a daughter and it’s been breaking her up.’
‘I never did like his arrogance myself,’ said Carey. ‘It’s the one thing that would have given you away in the end. You’re not bloody-minded enough to be Meyrick.’
‘Thank God for that,’ said Denison.
‘But you get on with her all right? As Meyrick?’
Denison nodded. ‘So far – but no future guarantees.’
‘I’ve been thinking about her,’ said Carey. ‘Suppose we took her to Finland – what would the opposition think?’
‘For God’s sake!’ said Denison disgustedly.
‘Think about it, man,’ Carey urged. ‘They’d check on her, and when they find out who she is they’d be bloody flummoxed. They might think that if you’re good enough to deceive Meyrick’s daughter you’re good enough to deceive me.’
Denison was acid. ‘That’s not far short of the mark. I had to tell you who I was.’
‘You can do it,’ said Carey. ‘It adds a bit of confusion, and there’s nothing like confusion for creating opportunity. Right now we need all the luck we can create for ourselves. Will you ask her if she’ll go with you to Helsinki tomorrow?’
Denison was troubled. ‘It’s all right for me,’ he said. ‘I’m going into this with my eyes open – but she’s being conned. Will you guarantee her safety?’
‘Of course I will. She’ll be as safe as though she were in England.’
It was a long time before Denison made his decision. ‘All right,’ he said resignedly. ‘I’ll ask her.’
Carey slapped him lightly on the arm. ‘Which brings us back to Meyrick’s character. As you said – he’s a right bastard. Bear that in mind when you’re handling her.’
‘You want her in Finland,’ said Denison. ‘I don’t. If I really act like her father she’s going to run and hide like she always has. Do you want that?’
‘I can’t say I do,’ said Carey. ‘But lean too far the other way and she’ll know you’re not Meyrick.’
Denison thought of the many ways in which he had hurt Lyn by his apparent forgetfulness. As in the case of her mascot, for instance; he had idly picked it up and asked what it was. ‘But you know,’ said Lyn in astonishment. He had incautiously shaken his head, and she burst out, ‘But you named him.’ There was a hurt look in her eyes. ‘You called him Thread-Bear.’
He laughed sourly. ‘Don’t worry; I’m hurting her enough just by being myself.’
‘It’s settled then,’ said Carey. ‘You have an appointment at Helsinki University tomorrow afternoon with Professor Pentti Kääriänen. Your secretary arranged it.’
‘Who the devil is he?’
‘He was one of Hannu Merikken’s assistants before the war. You are to introduce yourself as Merikken’s son and pump him about what Merikken was doing in his laboratory from 1937 to 1939. I want to find out if there’s been any other leakage about his X-ray researches.’ He paused. ‘Take the girl with you; it adds to your cover.’
‘All right.’ Denison gave Carey a level look. ‘And her name is Lyn. She’s not a bloody puppet; she’s a human being.’
Carey’s answering stare was equally unblinking. ‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ he said.
Carey watched Denison walk away and waited until he was joined by McCready. He sighed. ‘Sometimes I have moments of quiet desperation.’
McCready suppressed a smile. ‘What is it this time?’
‘See those buildings over there?’
McCready looked across the road. ‘That scrubby lot?’
‘That’s Victoria Terrace – there’s a police station in there now. The authorities wanted to pull it down but the conservationists objected and won their case on architectural grounds.’
‘I don’t see the point.’
‘Well, you see, it was Gestapo Headquarters during the war and it still smells to a lot of Norwegians.’ He paused. ‘I had a session in there once, with a man called Dieter Brun. Not a nice chap. He was killed towards the end of the war. Someone ran him down with a car.’
McCready was quiet because Carey rarely spoke of his past service. ‘I’ve been running around Scandinavia for nearly forty years – Spitzbergen to the Danish-German border, Bergen to the Russo-Finnish border. I’ll be sixty next month,’ said Carey. ‘And the bloody world hasn’t changed, after all.’ There was a note of quiet melancholy in his voice.
Next morning they all flew to Finland.
FOURTEEN (#ulink_67b8127f-ceb3-5e25-b018-0c9c826175d7)
Lyn Meyrick was worried about her father, which was a new and unwanted experience. Her previous worries in that direction had always been for herself in relation to her father. To worry for her father was something new which gave her an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach.
She had been delighted when he suggested that she accompany him to Finland; a delight compounded by the fact that for the first time he was treating her like a grown-up person. He now asked her opinion and deferred to her wishes in a way he had never done before. Diffidently she had fallen in with his wish that she call him by his given name and she was becoming accustomed to it.
However, the delight had been qualified by the presence of Diana Hansen who somehow destroyed that adult feeling and made her feel young and gawky like a schoolgirl. The relationship between Diana and her father puzzled her. At first she had thought they were lovers and had been neither surprised nor shocked. Well, not too shocked. Her father was a man and not all that old, and her mother had not been reticent about the reasons for the divorce. And, yet, she had not thought that Diana Hansen would have been the type to appeal to her father and the relationship seemed oddly cold and almost businesslike.
And there were other things about him that were strange. He would become abstract and remote. This was nothing new because he had always had that ability to switch off in the middle of a conversation which made her feel as though he had dropped a barrier to cut her off. What was new was that he would snap out of these abstracted moments and smile at her in a way he never had before, which made her heart turn over. And he seemed deliberately to put himself out to please her.
And he was losing his memory, too. Not about anything big or important, but about minor things like … like Thread-Bear, for instance. How could a man forget a pun which had caused so much excitement in a little girl? If there was anything about her father that had annoyed her in the past it was his memory for detail – he usually remembered too much for her comfort. It was all very odd.
Anyway, she was glad he had invited her to go to the University to meet the man with the unpronounceable name. He had been hesitant about it, and she said, ‘Why are you going?’
‘It’s just that I want to find out something about my father.’
‘But that’s my grandfather,’ she said. ‘Of course I’m coming.’
It seemed strange to have a grandfather called Hannu Merikken. She sat before the mirror and contemplated herself, making sure that all was in order. I’m not bad-looking, she thought, as she regarded the straight black eyebrows and the grey eyes. Mouth too big, of course. I’m no raving beauty, but I’ll do.
She snatched up her bag and went to the door on the way to meet her father. Then she stopped in mid-pace and thought, What am I thinking of? It’s my father … not … She shook the thought from her and opened the door.
Professor Kääriänen was a jolly, chubby-faced man of about sixty, not at all the dry professorial stick Lyn had imagined. He rose from his desk to greet Denison, and shot out a spate of Finnish. Denison held up his hand in protest: ‘I’m sorry; I have no Finnish.’
Kääriänen raised his eyebrows and said in English, ‘Remarkable!’
Denison shrugged. ‘Is it? I left when I was seventeen. I suppose I spoke Finnish for fifteen years – and I haven’t spoken it for nearly thirty.’ He smiled. ‘You might say my Finnish language muscle has atrophied.’
Kääriänen nodded understandably. ‘Yes, yes; my own German was once quite fluent – but now?’ He spread his hands. ‘So you are Hannu Merikken’s son.’
‘Allow me to introduce my daughter, Lyn.’
Kääriänen came forward, his hands outstretched. ‘And his granddaughter – a great honour. But sit down, please. Would you like coffee?’
‘Thank you; that would be very nice.’
Kääriänen went to the door, spoke to the girl in the other office, and then came back. ‘Your father was a great man, Dr … er … Meyrick.’
Denison nodded. ‘That is my name now. I reverted to the old family name.’
The professor laughed. ‘Ah, yes; I well remember Hannu telling me the story. He made it sound so romantic. And what are you doing here in Finland, Dr Meyrick?’
‘I don’t really know,’ said Denison cautiously. ‘Perhaps it’s a need to get back to my origins. A delayed homesickness, if you like.’
‘I understand,’ said Kääriänen. ‘And you want to know something about your father – that’s why you’ve come to me?’
‘I understand you worked with him – before the war.’
‘I did, much to my own profit. Your father was not only a great research worker – he was also a great teacher. But I was not the only one. There were four of us, as I remember. You should remember that.’
‘I was very young before the war,’ said Denison defensively. ‘Not even into my teens.’
‘And you don’t remember me,’ said Kääriänen, his eyes twinkling. His hand patted his plump belly. ‘I’m not surprised; I’ve changed quite a lot. But I remember you. You were a young rascal – you upset one of my experiments.’
Denison smiled. ‘If guilty I plead sorrow.’
‘Yes,’ said Kääriänen reminiscently. ‘There were four of us with your father in those days. We made a good team.’ He frowned. ‘You know; I think I am the only one left.’ He ticked them off with his fingers. ‘Olavi Koivisto joined the army and was killed. Liisa Linnankivi – she was also killed in the bombing of Viipuri; that was just before your father died, of course. Kaj Salojärvi survived the war; he died three years ago – cancer, poor fellow. Yes, there is only me left of the old team.’
‘Did you all work together on the same projects?’
‘Sometimes yes, sometimes no.’ Kääriänen leaned forward. ‘Sometimes we worked on our own projects with Hannu giving advice. As a scientist yourself, Dr Meyrick, you will understand the work of the laboratory.’
Denison nodded. ‘What was the main trend of my father’s thought in those days before the war?’
Kääriänen spread his hands. ‘What else but the atom? We were all thinking about the atom. Those were the great pioneering days, you know; it was very exciting.’ He paused, and added drily, ‘Not long after that, of course, it became too exciting, but by that time no one in Finland had time to think about the atom.’
He clasped his hands across his belly. ‘I well remember the time Hannu showed me a paper written by Meitner and Frisch interpreting Hahn’s experiments. The paper showed clearly that a chain reaction could take place and that the generation of atomic energy was clearly possible. We were all excited – you cannot imagine the excitement – and all our work was put aside to concentrate on this new thing.’ He shrugged heavily. ‘But that was 1939 – the year of the Winter War. No time for frivolities like atoms.’ His tone was sardonic.
‘What was my father working on when this happened?’
‘Ah – here is the coffee,’ said Kääriänen. He fussed about with the coffee, and offered small cakes to Lyn. ‘And what do you do, young lady? Are you a scientist like your father and your grandfather?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Lyn politely. ‘I’m a teacher.’
‘We must have the teachers, too,’ said Kääriänen. ‘What was that you asked, Doctor?’
‘I was wondering what my father was working on at the time he read the paper on atomic fission.’
‘Ah, yes,’ the professor said vaguely, and waved his hand a little helplessly. ‘It was a long time ago, you know; so much has happened since – it is difficult to remember.’ He picked up a cake and was about to bite into it when he said, ‘I remember – it was something to do with some aspects of the properties of X-rays.’
‘Did you work on that project?’
‘No – that would be Liisa – or was it Olavi?’
‘So you don’t know the nature of the work he was doing?’
‘No.’ Kääriänen’s face broke into a smile, and he shook with laughter. ‘But, knowing your father, I can tell you it had no practical application. He was very proud of being a pure research physicist. We were all like that in those days – proud of being uncontaminated by the world.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘A pity we’re not like that now.’
The next hour and a half was spent in reminiscences from Kääriänen interspersed with Denison’s desperate ploys to fend off his inquiries into Meyrick’s work. After allowing what he thought was a decent time he excused himself and he and Lyn took their leave of the professor with assurances that they would keep in professional contact.
They came out into Senate Square and made their way back to the hotel along Aleksanterinkatu, Helsinki’s equivalent of Bond Street. Lyn was thoughtful and quiet, and Denison said, ‘A penny for your thoughts.’
‘I was just thinking,’ she said. ‘It seemed at one time as though you were pumping Professor Kääriänen.’
Did it, by God! thought Denison. You’re too bloody smart by half. Aloud he said, ‘I just wanted to know about my father, the work he did and so on.’
‘You didn’t give much back,’ said Lyn tartly. ‘Every time he asked a question you evaded it.’
‘I had to,’ said Denison. ‘Most of my work is in defence. I can’t babble about that in a foreign country.’
‘Of course,’ said Lyn colourlessly.
They were outside a jeweller’s shop and Denison pointed. ‘What do you think of that?’
She caught her breath. ‘Oh, it’s beautiful!’
It was a necklace – chunky, rough-hewn gold of an intricate and yet natural shape. He felt reckless and took her arm. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Inside.’
The necklace cost him £215 of Meyrick’s money which he paid by credit card. Apart from the fact that he thought that Meyrick ought to pay more attention to his daughter he thought it would take her mind off other things.
‘Your birthday present,’ he said.
Lyn was breathless with excitement. ‘Oh, thank you, Da … Harry.’ Impulsively she kissed him. ‘But I have nothing to wear with it.’
‘Then you’ll have to buy something, won’t you? Let’s go back to the hotel.’
‘Yes, let’s.’ She slipped her fingers into his. ‘I have a surprise for you, too – at the hotel.’
‘Oh? What is it?’
‘Well, I thought that now you’re back in Finland you ought to become reacquainted with the sauna.’
He laughed, and said cheerfully, ‘I’ve never been to a sauna in my life.’
She stopped dead on the pavement and stared at him. ‘But you must have. When you were a boy.’
‘Oh, yes; I went then.’ He cursed himself for the slip. Carey had given him books to read about Finland; language was one thing but there was a minimum any Finn would know, expatriate or not. The sauna definitely fitted into that category. ‘I tend to regard my years in Finland as another life.’ It was lame but it would have to do.
‘It’s about time you were reintroduced to the sauna,’ she said firmly. ‘I go often in London – it’s great fun. I’ve booked for us both in the hotel sauna for six o’clock.’
‘Great!’ he said hollowly.
FIFTEEN (#ulink_bc89d903-7ac8-5422-bd9a-5c4d43cd6487)
In the hotel he escaped to his room and rang the number he had been given. When Carey answered he gave a report on his interview with Kääriänen, and Carey said, ‘So it all comes to this: Merikken was working on X-rays at the time but no one can remember exactly what he was doing. Those who would know are dead. That’s encouraging.’
‘Yes,’ said Denison.
‘You don’t sound pleased,’ said Carey.
‘It’s not that. I have something else on my mind.’
‘Out with it.’
‘Lyn has booked me in for the sauna this evening.’
‘So?’
‘She’s booked us both in.’
‘So?’ There was a pause before Carey chuckled. ‘My boy; I can see you have a wrong impression or an evil mind. This is not Hamburg nor is it the lower reaches of Soho; you’re in Helsinki and the Finns are a decent people. I think you’ll find there is one sauna for gentlemen and another for ladies.’
‘Oh!’ said Denison weakly. ‘It’s just that I don’t know much about it. One gets the wrong impression.’
‘Didn’t you read the books I gave you?’
‘I must have missed that one.’
‘In any case, there’s nothing wrong with a father joining his daughter in the sauna,’ said Carey judicially. ‘It may be done in your own home but not, I think, in an international hotel.’ He paused. ‘You’d better read up on it. Meyrick wouldn’t have forgotten the sauna – no Finn would.’
‘I’ll do that.’
‘Have fun,’ said Carey, and rang off.
Denison put down the telephone and rummaged in his suitcase where he found a slim book on the sauna written for the benefit of English-speaking visitors to Finland. On studying it he was relieved to find that the sauna appeared to be little more than a Turkish bath in essence – with differences.
He turned back the pages and read the introduction. There was, apparently, one sauna for every six Finns which, he reflected, was probably a greater incidence than bathrooms in Britain. A clean people, the Finns – mens sana in corpore sauna. Stones were heated by birch logs or, in modern times, by electric elements. Humidity was introduced by löyly – tossing water on the stones. The booklet managed to convey an air of mystic ritual about what was essentially a prosaic activity, and Denison came to the conclusion that the sauna was the Finnish equivalent of the Japanese tea ceremony.
At quarter to six Lyn rang him. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘I’ll meet you afterwards in the swimming pool. Have you got your trunks?’
Denison mentally ran down a checklist of Meyrick’s clothing. ‘Yes.’
‘At half past six, then.’ She rang off.
He went up to the top floor of the hotel, found the sauna for men, and went into the change room where he took his time, taking his cue from the others who were there. He stripped and went into the ante-chamber to the sauna where he showered and then took a square of towelling from a pile and went into the sauna itself.
It was hot.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a man lay his towel on a slatted, wooden bench and sit on it, so he followed suit. The wood beneath his feet was almost unbearably hot and sweat was already beginning to start from his skin. A man left the sauna and another took a bucket of water and sluiced it along the wood on which his feet were resting. Tendrils of steam arose but his feet were cooler.
Another man left the sauna and Denison turned and found a thermometer on the wall by his head. It registered 115 degrees. Not too bad, he thought; I can stand that. Then he looked again and saw that the thermometer was calibrated in degrees Celsius. Christ Almighty! Water boils at 100°C.
He blinked the sweat out of his eyes and turned his head to find that there was just himself and another man left – a broad-shouldered, deep-chested man, shaggy with hair. The man picked up a wooden dipper and filled it with water from a bucket. He paused with it in his hand, and said interrogatively, ‘Löylyä?’
Denison answered with one of the few Finnish words he had picked up. ‘Kiitos.’
The man tossed the dipperful of water on to the square tub of hot stones in the corner. A blast of heat hit Denison like a physical blow and he gasped involuntarily. The man shot a sudden spate of Finnish at him, and Denison shook his head. ‘I’m sorry; I have no Finnish.’
‘Ah; first time in Finland?’
‘Yes,’ said Denison, and added, ‘since I was a boy.’
The man nodded. A sheen of sweat covered his hairy torso. He grinned. ‘First time in sauna?’
Sweat dripped from Denison’s nose. ‘For a long time – many years.’
The man nodded and rose. He picked up the dipper again and, turning away from Denison, he filled it from the bucket, Denison gritted his teeth. Anything a bloody Finn can stand, I can; he thought.
With a casual flick of the wrist the man tossed the water on to the hot stones, then quickly went out of the sauna, slamming the door behind him. Again the wave of heat hit Denison, rising to an almost intolerable level so that he gasped and spluttered. A bloody practical joker – baiting a beginner!
He felt his head swim and tried to stand up but found that his legs had gone rubbery beneath him. He rolled off the top bench and tried to crawl to the door and felt the hot wood burning his hands. Darkness closed in on him and the last thing he saw was his own hand groping for the door handle before he collapsed and passed out.
He did not see the door open, nor did he feel himself being lifted up and carried out.
SIXTEEN (#ulink_fa7a7ccd-6da2-5fd7-8635-31f577f19d39)
He awoke to darkness.
For a long time he just lay there, unable to think because of the throbbing pain in his head. Then his head cleared a little and he stirred and knew he was lying on a bed. When he moved he heard a metallic clinking noise. He moved again and became aware that he was naked, and a recollection of the sauna came back.
His first thought was that he had collapsed of heat prostration and had been taken to his own room, but when he lifted his hand that theory disintegrated quickly. There was a tug on both wrists and he felt cold metal, and when he twisted his hands around he heard that clinking sound again and felt the handcuffs.
He lay quiet for a while before he levered himself up on one elbow to stare into the blackness, then he swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. Tentatively he moved his feet apart; at least they were not manacled and he could walk. But walk where? He held his arms out before him and moved them sideways, first to the left and then to the right, until he encountered an object. It was flat with square edges and he concluded it was a bedside table. Exploring the top brought no joy; there was nothing on it.
Although his headache had eased he felt as weak as a kitten and he sat for a few moments to conserve his strength. Whether his weakness was a natural result of the heat of the sauna was debatable. He reasoned that if the sauna did that to everyone then it would not be so popular in Finland. Apart from that, he had no idea of how long he had been unconscious. He felt his skin and found it cool and with no moisture.
After a while he stood up with his arms out in front of him and began to shuffle forward. He had gone only a few feet when he stubbed his toe on something and the pain was agonizing. ‘Damn!’ he said viciously, and stepped back until he felt the bed behind his legs. He sat down and nursed his foot.
A sound came from the other side of the room and he saw a patch of greyness, quickly obscured and vanishing. A light suddenly stabbed at him and he blinked and screwed up his eyes against the sudden glare. A voice said in accented English, ‘So Dr Meyrick is awake – and up, too.’
Denison brought up his hands before his eyes. The voice said sharply, ‘Don’t move, Meyrick. Stay on the bed.’ Then, more coolly, ‘Do you know what this is?’
The lamp dipped a little so that he could see the vague outline of a man in back-reflected light. He saw the glint of metal in an out-thrust hand. ‘Well?’ said the voice impatiently. ‘What is it, Meyrick?’
Denison’s voice was hoarse. ‘A pistol.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’d like to know what the hell this is all about.’
The voice was amused. ‘No doubt you would.’ As Denison tried to sort out the accent the light played over him. ‘I see you’ve hurt your side, Dr Meyrick. How did that happen?’
‘A pack of maniacs attacked me in Norway. They seem to have the same breed in Finland, too.’
‘Poor Dr Meyrick,’ mocked the voice. ‘You seem to be continually in trouble. Did you report it to the police?’
‘Of course I did. What else would you expect me to do? And to the British Embassy in Oslo.’ He remembered what Carey had said about Meyrick’s bloody-mindedness, and added irascibly, ‘Bloody incompetents – the lot of them.’
‘Who did you see at the Embassy?’
‘A man called McCready picked me up at the police station and took me to the Embassy. Look, I’ve had enough of this. I’m answering no more questions. None at all.’
The pistol moved languidly. ‘Yes, you will. Did you meet Carey?’
‘No.’
‘You’re a liar.’
‘If you think you know the answers, why ask me the questions? I don’t know anyone called Carey.’
A sigh came out of the darkness. ‘Meyrick, I think you ought to know that we have your daughter.’
Denison tensed, but sat quietly. After a moment he said, ‘Prove it.’
‘Nothing easier.’ The pistol withdrew slowly. ‘Tape recorders are made conveniently small these days, are they not?’ There was a click and a slight hissing noise in the darkness beyond the flashlight, then a man spoke:
‘Now tell me; what’s your father doing here in Finland?’
‘He’s on holiday.’
That was Lyn’s clear voice. Denison recognized it in spite of the slight distortion which was far less than that of a telephone.
‘Did he tell you that?’
‘Who else would tell me?’ She sounded amused.
‘But he went to see Professor Kääriänen this afternoon. That sounds more like business than pleasure.’
‘He wanted to find out something about his father – my grandfather.’
‘What did he want to find out?’
There was a raw silence, then the man said, ‘Come now, Miss Meyrick; nothing will happen, either to you or to your father, if you answer my questions. I assure you that you will be released unharmed.’
A switch snapped and the voices stopped. From the darkness: ‘You see, Dr Meyrick! Of course, I cannot guarantee the truthfulness of my friend regarding his last statement.’ The pistol reappeared, glinting in the light. ‘Now, to return to Mr Carey – what did he have to say?’
‘He hauled me over the coals for being in a road accident,’ said Denison.
The voice sharpened. ‘You can do better than that. Now, having put you and Carey together, I want to know just what you’re doing here in Finland. I want it truthfully, and I want it quickly. And you’d better start thinking seriously of your daughter’s health.’ The gun jerked. ‘Talk!’
Denison was never more conscious of the disadvantages of being naked; it took the pith out of a man. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘We’re here to see the Finnish government.’
‘What about?’
‘A defence project.’
‘Who in the government?’
‘Not really the government,’ said Denison inventively. ‘Someone in the army – in military intelligence.’
‘The name?’ When Denison was silent the gun jerked impatiently. ‘The name, Meyrick.’
Denison was hastily trying to slap together a name that sounded even remotely Finnish. ‘Saarinen.’
‘He’s an architect.’
‘Not this one – this one’s a colonel,’ said Denison, hoping it was a rank in the Finnish army. He was listening intently but heard no sound other than an occasional rustle of clothing from the other side of the bright light.
‘What’s the project?’
‘Electronic espionage – equipment for monitoring Russian broadcasts, especially on military wavelengths.’
There was a long silence. ‘I suppose you know that this is already done.’
‘Not the way I do it,’ said Denison.
‘All right; how do you do it? And let’s not have me extract answers like pulling teeth or that girl of yours might have some of her teeth pulled.’
‘I invented an automatic decoder,’ said Denison. A barrier broke in his mind and a wave of panic and terror swept over him. He felt sweat trickle down his chest and then deliberately pushed the panic back where it had come from – but he retained the words that had come with it.
‘It’s a stochastic process,’ he said, not even knowing what the word meant. ‘A development of the Monte Carlo method. The Russian output is repeatedly sampled and put through a series of transformations at random. Each transformation is compared with a store held in a computer memory – if a match is made a tree branching takes place leading to a further set of transformations. There are a lot of dead ends and it needs a big, fast computer – very powerful.’
The sweat poured off him. He had not understood a word of what he had said.
‘I got most of that,’ said the voice, and Denison thought he detected a touch of awe. ‘You invented this thing?’
‘I developed the circuits and helped with the programming,’ said Denison sullenly.
‘There’s one thing I don’t understand – and this I really have to know. Why give it to the Finns?’
‘We didn’t,’ said Denison. ‘They gave it to us. They developed the basics. They didn’t have the resources to follow up, so they gave it to us.’
‘Professor Kääriänen?’
‘Look,’ said Denison. ‘Let me hear that tape again.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m not saying another bloody word until I hear it,’ said Denison stubbornly.
A pause. ‘All right; here’s a re-run.’
The gun vanished and there was a click.
‘Now tell me; what’s your father doing here in Finland?’
‘He’s on holiday.’
Denison strained his ears as he listened to the conversation and evaluated the voices. He raised his hands and slowly parted them so that the link of the handcuffs tightened.
‘He wanted to find out something about his father – my grandfather.’
‘What did he want to find out?’ A pause. ‘Come now, Miss Meyrick; nothing will happen, either to you or to your father, if you ans …’
Denison lunged, moving fast. He had moved his legs under the bed, so that when he moved he was on the balls of his feet and utilizing the maximum thrust of his thighs. His hands were as wide apart as he could spread them and he rammed them forward as though to grab the man by the ears. The link between the handcuffs caught the man right across the larynx.
Both tape recorder and flashlight dropped to the floor; the flashlight rolled, sending grotesque shadows about the room, and the recorder babbled. Denison kept up his pressure on the man’s throat and was aware of cloth as he pressed his hands to his opponent’s face. In the shifting light he saw the glint of metal as the man raised the pistol from his pocket and he twisted his hand frantically and managed to grab the wrist as it came up.
With his left hand holding firmly on to his opponent’s right wrist he thrust firmly so that the steel link cut into the man’s throat. The gun was thus held close to the man’s right ear, and when it went off with a blinding flare and a deafening explosion the man reeled away and dropped it.
Denison dived for it and came up again quickly. The door banged closed and the recorder chattered insanely. He made for the door and opened it, to find himself in a narrow corridor with another door at the end. As he ran for it he heard Diana Hansen say, from behind him, ‘ Lyn, if you take this attitude it will be the worse for you.’
He heard the words but they made little sense and he had no time to evaluate them. He burst through the door and found himself in the brightly lit hotel corridor. There was no one to be seen, so he ran to the corner where the corridor turned and came to the lifts, and skidded to a halt in front of an astonished couple in evening dress. One lift was going down.
He made for the stairs, hearing a startled scream from behind him, and ran down two flights of stairs, causing quite a commotion as he emerged into the lobby yelling for the police and wearing nothing but a pair of handcuffs and an automatic pistol.
SEVENTEEN (#ulink_88dd9192-7816-5208-94b4-c6939e1594f0)
‘Incredible!’ said Carey. His voice was dead as though he, himself, did not believe what he was saying, and the single word made no echo in the quiet room.
‘That’s what happened,’ said Denison simply.
McCready stirred. ‘It would seem that more than water was thrown on to the hot stones in the sauna.’
‘Yes,’ said Carey. ‘I have heard that some Finns, in an experimental mood, have used koskenkorva as Iöylyä.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Denison.
‘A sort of Finnish vodka.’ Carey put down his dead pipe. ‘I dare say some smart chemist could come up with a vaporizing knock-out mixture. I accept that.’ He frowned and shook his head. ‘Could you repeat what you told this fellow about your bloody decoder?’
‘It’s engraved on my memory,’ said Denison bitterly. ‘I said, “It’s a stochastic process – a development of the Monte Carlo method. The Russian output is repeatedly sampled and put through a series of transformations at random. Each transformation is compared with a store held in a computer memory – if a match is made a tree branching takes place leading to a further set of transformations. There are a lot of dead ends and it needs a big, fast computer – very powerful.”’
‘It would,’ said Carey drily.
‘I don’t even know what stochastic means,’ said Denison helplessly.
Carey took a smoker’s compendium from his pocket and began to clean his pipe, making a dry scraping sound. ‘I know what it means. A stochastic process has an element of probability in it. The Monte Carlo method was first devised as a means of predicting the rate of diffusion of uranium hexafluoride through a porous barrier – it’s been put to other uses since.’
‘But I don’t know anything about that,’ expostulated Denison.
‘Apparently you do,’ said Carey. ‘If you thought you were talking gobbledegook you were wrong. It would make sense to a mathematician or a computer man. And you were right about something else; you’d need a bloody powerful computer to handle it – the transformations would run into millions for even a short message. In fact, I don’t think there is that kind of a computer, unless the programming method is equally powerful.’
Denison developed the shakes. ‘Was I a mathematician? Did I work on computers?’ he whispered.
‘No,’ said Carey levelly. ‘What did you think you were doing when you reeled off all that stuff?’
‘I was spinning a yarn – I couldn’t tell him why we were really here.’
McCready leaned forward. ‘What did you feel like when you were spouting like that?’
‘I was scared to death,’ confessed Denison.
‘Of the man?’
There was violence in Denison’s headshake. ‘Not of the man – of myself. What was in me.’ His hands began to quiver again.
Carey caught McCready’s eye and shook his head slightly; that line of questioning was too dangerous for Denison. He said, ‘We’ll leave that for a moment and move on. You say this chap accepted you as Meyrick?’
‘He didn’t question it.’
‘What made you go for him? That was a brave thing to do when he had a gun.’
‘He wasn’t holding the gun,’ said Denison. ‘He was holding the recorder. I suddenly tumbled to it that the recording was a fake. The threatening bit at the end had a different quality – a dead sound. All the other stuff was just ordinary conversation and could have happened quite naturally. It followed that this chap couldn’t have Lyn, and that left me free to act.’
‘Quite logical,’ said Carey. ‘And quite right.’ There was a bemused look on his face as he muttered to himself, ‘Competent!’
McCready said, ‘Lyn was in the hotel lounge yesterday afternoon and a chap sat at the table and began to pump her. Either the flower pot or the ashtray was bugged and the conversation recorded. Diana Hansen was around and caught on to what was happening and butted in, spoiling the game. Of course, she didn’t know about the bug at the time.’
A look of comprehension came over Denison’s face. ‘I heard Diana’s voice on the tape. She was threatening Lyn, too.’
McCready grinned. ‘When this character was foiled he went away, and Diana and Lyn had a row. The bug was still there so that, too, was picked up on the tape. It seems that your daughter is trying to protect her father against the wiles of a wicked woman of the world.’
‘Oh, no!’ moaned Denison.
‘You’ll have to come the heavy father,’ McCready advised.
‘Does Lyn know what happened?’
Carey grunted and glanced at his watch. ‘Six in the morning – she’ll still be asleep. When you went missing I had Mrs Hansen tell her that the two of you were going on the town and you’d be late back. I didn’t want her alarmed.’
‘She’s certain to find out,’ said McCready. ‘This is too good a story to suppress – the eminent Dr Meyrick capering in the lobby of the city’s best hotel as naked as the day he was born and waving a gun. Impossible to keep out of the papers.’
‘Why in hell did you do it?’ demanded Carey. ‘You were bawling for the police, too.’
‘I thought I could catch the chap,’ said Denison. ‘When I didn’t I thought of what Meyrick would have done – the real Meyrick. If an innocent man is threatened with a gun the first thing he does is to yell for the coppers. An innocent Meyrick would be bloody outraged – so I blew my top in the hotel lobby.’
‘Still logical,’ muttered Carey. He raised his voice. ‘All right; the man in the sauna. Description?’
‘He was hairy – he had a pelt like a bear.’
‘I don’t care if he was as hairy as Esau,’ said Carey caustically. ‘We can’t go stripping the clothes off suspects to find how hairy they are. His face, man!’
‘Brown eyes,’ said Denison tiredly. ‘Square face – a bit battered. Nose on one side. Dimple in chin.’
‘That’s the bloke who was quizzing Lyn Meyrick,’ said McCready.
‘The other man – the one with the gun.’
‘I never saw him,’ said Denison. ‘The room was darkened and when I got my hands on him I found he was wearing some kind of a mask. But I …’ He stopped on a doubtful note.
‘Carry on,’ said Carey encouragingly.
‘He spoke English but with an accent.’
‘What sort of accent?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Denison desperately. ‘Call it a generalized middle-European accent. The thing is that I think I’ve heard the voice before.’
At that, Carey proceeded to put Denison through the wringer. Fifteen minutes later Denison yelled, ‘I tell you I don’t know.’ He put his head in his hands. ‘I’m tired.’
Carey stood up. ‘All right; you can go to bed. We’ll let you sleep, but I can’t answer for the local cops – they’ll want to see you again. Got your story ready?’
‘Just the truth.’
‘I’d leave out that bit about the decoder you invented,’ advised Carey. ‘It’s a bit too much.’ He jerked his head at McCready. ‘Come on, George.’
They left Denison to his bed. In the lift Carey passed his hand over his face. ‘I didn’t think this job would call for so many sleepless nights.’
‘Let’s find some coffee,’ proposed McCready. ‘There’s sure to be an early morning place open by now.’
They left the hotel in silence and walked along Manner-heimintie. The street was quiet with only the occasional taxi and the odd cyclist on his way to an early start at work. Carey said suddenly, ‘Denison worries me.’
‘You mean that stuff he came out with?’
‘What the hell else?’ The corners of Carey’s mouth turned down. ‘And more – but principally that. A man like Meyrick might design just such a contraption – but where did Denison get it from?’
‘I’ve been thinking about it,’ said McCready. His voice was careful. ‘Have you considered the possibility of a double shuffle?’
Carey broke stride. ‘Speak plainly.’
‘Well, here we have a man whom we think is Denison. His past is blocked out and every time he tries to probe it he breaks into a muck sweat. You saw that.’
‘Well?’
‘But supposing he really is Meyrick – also with the past blocked out – who only thinks he’s Denison. Harding said it was possible. Then anything brought out of the past in an emergency would be pure Meyrick.’
Carey groaned. ‘What a bloody roundabout to be on.’ He shook his head decisively. ‘That won’t wear. Iredale said he wasn’t Meyrick.’
‘No, he didn’t,’ said McCready softly. ‘I can quote his exact words. Iredale said, “He’s not Meyrick – not unless Meyrick has had plastic surgery recently.”’
Carey thought that out. ‘Stop trying to confuse me. That would mean that the man we had in the hotel in Oslo for three weeks was not Meyrick – that the ringer was the other way round.’
He stopped dead on the pavement. ‘Look, George; let’s get one thing quite clear.’ He stabbed a finger back at the hotel. ‘That man there is not Meyrick. I know Meyrick – he fights with his tongue and uses sarcasm as a weapon, but if you put him in a real fight he’d collapse. Denison is a quiet-spoken, civil man who, in an emergency, seems to have the instincts of a born killer. He’s the antithesis of Meyrick. Ram that into your mind and hold on to it fast.’
McCready shrugged. ‘It leaves a lot to be explained.’
‘It will be explained. I want Giles Denison sorted out once and for all back in London. I want his life sifted day by day and minute by minute, if necessary, to find out how he knows that mathematical jargon. And I want Harding brought here tout de suite.’
‘He’ll like that,’ said McCready sardonically. ‘I’ll pass the word on.’
They walked for another hundred yards and McCready said, ‘Denison is quite a boy. Who else would think of handcuffs as a weapon?’ He chuckled. ‘I think he’s neither Meyrick nor Denison – I think he’s Clark Kent.’
Carey’s jaw dropped. ‘And who the blazes is that?’
‘Superman,’ said McCready blandly.
EIGHTEEN (#ulink_732d0b06-9d0d-5392-b669-4c51c12ccfbf)
Denison slept, was interviewed by the police, and slept again. He got up at four, bathed and dressed, and went downstairs. Crossing the lobby he saw the receptionist stare at him, then turn and say something to the porter with a smile. Dr H. F. Meyrick was evidently the hotel celebrity.
He looked into the lounge, saw no one he knew, and then investigated the bar where he found Diana Hansen sitting at a table and reading a paperback. She looked up as he stood over her. ‘I was wondering when you’d show.’
‘I had to get some sleep. Yesterday was a bit wearing.’ He sat down and picked up the ashtray to inspect its underside.
Diana laughed. ‘No bugs – I checked.’
He put it down. ‘Where’s Lyn?’
‘Out.’ At his raised eyebrows she elaborated slightly. ‘Sightseeing.’
A waiter came up. ‘Mittö otatte?’
‘A olutta, olkaa hyvä,’ said Denison. He looked at Diana. ‘And you?’
‘Nothing for me,’ she said. ‘Your Finnish is improving.’
‘Only enough to order the necessities of life. Has Carey come to any conclusions about yesterday?’
‘Carey isn’t here,’ she said. ‘I’m to tell you to sit tight until he comes back.’
‘Where is he?’
‘He’s gone to Sweden.’
‘Sweden!’ His eyes were blank. ‘Why has he gone there?’
‘He didn’t tell me.’ She stood up and picked up her book. ‘Now that I’ve passed on the word I’ll get about my business.’ Her lips quirked. ‘Don’t take any wooden saunas.’
‘Never again,’ he said fervently. He bit his lip. ‘But they might take another crack at me.’
‘Not to worry,’ she said. ‘You’re under Ian Armstrong’s eye, and he’s well named. He’s sitting at the bar now. Don’t acknowledge him – and don’t move so fast he can’t keep up with you.’
She went away as the waiter came up with his beer. He drank it moodily and ordered another bottle. Over at the bar Armstrong was making a single beer stretch a long way. Why Sweden? What could possibly have happened there to drag Carey away? No answer came.
He was half-way through the second bottle when Lyn entered the bar. She sat at his table and looked at his beer. ‘You look dissipated.’
He grinned at her. ‘I feel dissipated. I was up late.’
‘So I’m told,’ she said unsmilingly. ‘I heard a strange story this morning – about you.’
He regarded her warily and decided to riposte. ‘And I’ve heard something pretty odd about you. Why did you quarrel with Diana?’
Pink spots came into her cheeks. ‘So she told you.’
‘She didn’t say anything about it,’ said Denison truthfully.
Lyn flared up. ‘Then who did if she didn’t? We were alone.’ She tugged viciously at the strap of her bag and looked down at the table. ‘It doesn’t feel nice to be ashamed of one’s own father. I never really believed anything Mother said about you, but now I can see she was telling the truth.’
‘Calm down,’ he said. ‘Have a drink. What will you have? A Coca-Cola?’
Her chin came up. ‘A dry Martini.’
He signalled to the waiter, suppressing a smile, and gave the order. When the waiter had gone, she said, ‘It was disgusting of you.’
‘What’s so disgusting about Diana Hansen?’
‘You know what I mean. I’ve heard the jet set gets up to some queer things but, my God, I didn’t expect it of you. Not my own father.’ Her eyes were unnaturally bright.
‘No, I don’t know what you mean. What am I supposed to have done?’ he asked plaintively.
A hurt look came into her eyes. ‘I know you went out with that woman last night because she told me so. And I know how you came back, too. You must have been disgustingly drunk to do that. Did she have any clothes on? No wonder they had to send for the police.’
‘Oh, my God!’ said Denison, appalled. ‘Lyn, it wasn’t like that.’
‘Then why is everyone talking about it? I heard it at breakfast this morning. There were some Americans at the next table – you ought to have heard them. It was … dirty!’ She broke into tears.
Denison hastily looked about the bar and then put his hand on Lyn’s. ‘It wasn’t like that; I’ll tell you.’
So he told her, leaving out everything important which would only complicate the issue. He was interrupted once by the waiter bringing the Martini, and then he bore in again to finish his story.
She dabbed at her eyes with a small handkerchief and sniffed. ‘A likely tale!’
‘If you don’t believe me, would you believe the police?’ he said exasperatedly. ‘They’ve been on my neck all morning.’
‘Then why did Diana tell me you were going out with her?’
‘It was the best thing she could have done,’ said Denison. ‘She didn’t want you worried. And about your quarrel – I heard a bit of it on the tape.’ He explained about that, and said, ‘The police have the tape now.’
Lyn was horrified. ‘You mean everyone is listening to that quarrel?’
‘Everyone except me,’ said Denison drily. ‘Have your Martini.’
Something else occurred to her. ‘But you might have been hurt – he might have killed you!’
‘But he didn’t – and all’s well.’
‘Who could it have been?’
‘I suppose I’m a fairly important man in some respects,’ said Denison tiredly. ‘I told you yesterday that I don’t babble about my work. Someone wanted information and took direct action.’
She straightened her shoulders and looked at him with shining eyes. ‘And didn’t get it.’
He brutally chopped the props from under the hero worship. ‘As for Diana Hansen, there’s nothing in it – not the way you think. But even if there were it’s got nothing to do with you. You’re behaving more like an affronted wife than a daughter.’
The glow died. Lyn hunched her shoulders a little and looked down at the Martini glass. Suddenly she picked it up and drained the contents at a swallow. It took her breath away and she choked a little before putting down the empty glass. Denison grinned. ‘Does that make you feel better?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said miserably.
‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘No harm done. Let’s go for a walk.’ He signalled to the waiter and paid the bill and, as he got up from the table, he glanced over at the bar and saw Armstrong doing the same. It was comforting to have a bodyguard.
They left the bar and went into the lobby. As they approached the entrance a porter came in loaded with baggage, and a burly figure followed. ‘Hey, Lucy; look who’s here,’ boomed a voice. ‘It’s Harry Meyrick.’
‘Oh, hell!’ said Denison, but there was no escape.
‘Who is it?’ asked Lyn.
‘I’ll introduce you,’ said Denison grimly.
‘Hi, Harry!’ shouted Kidder, advancing across the lobby with outstretched hand. ‘It’s great to see you, it sure is.’
‘Hallo, Jack,’ said Denison without enthusiasm, and allowed his hand to be pulped.
‘It’s a small world,’ said Kidder predictably. ‘I was only saying that to Lucy the other day when we bumped into the Williamsons in Stockholm. You remember the Williamsons?’
‘Of course,’ said Denison.
‘I guess we’re all on the same Scandinavian round, eh? I wouldn’t be surprised if the Williamsons don’t turn up here, too. Wouldn’t it be great if they did?’
‘Great!’ said Denison.
Lucy Kidder popped out from behind her husband. ‘Why, Harry; how nice to see you. Did Jack tell you we saw the Williamsons in Stockholm?’
‘Yes, he did.’
‘It’s a small world,’ said Lucy Kidder.
‘It sure is,’ said Jack. ‘If the Williamsons get here – and that nice friend of yours, Diana Hansen – we could get down to some poker. That gal is a mean player.’
Lyn said, ‘Diana Hansen? Why, she’s here.’
Surprise and pleasure beamed from Kidder’s face. ‘Now, isn’t that just great? Maybe I’ll be able to win some of my dough back, Lucy.’
‘Lose it, more likely,’ she said tartly. ‘Jack really believes he can play poker.’
‘Now then, Momma,’ he said good-humouredly. ‘Don’t knock the old man.’ He looked down at Lyn. ‘And who’s the little lady?’
‘Excuse me,’ said Denison. ‘Jack Kidder – my daughter, Lyn – Lucy Kidder.’
They shook hands and Kidder said, ‘You didn’t tell me you had a daughter, Harry. You certainly didn’t tell me you had a beautiful daughter. Where you been hiding her?’
‘Lyn’s been at University,’ said Denison. ‘She’s now on vacation.’
Lucy said, ‘I don’t want to break things up, Jack, but I guess we gotta register. The desk clerk’s waiting.’
‘Sure,’ said Kidder. ‘I’ll be seeing you around, Harry. Tell Diana to break out that deck of cards – we’ll be playing poker.’
‘I’ll do that,’ said Denison and, taking Lyn by the arm, he steered her out of the hotel. Under his breath he said, ‘Over my dead body.’
‘Who was that?’ asked Lyn.
‘The biggest bore from the North American continent,’ said Denison. ‘With his long-suffering wife.’
NINETEEN (#ulink_668aa2d1-c17b-5b89-8b07-d4b154cc309a)
Carey and McCready were being violently seasick. They clung to the rail of the small boat as it pitched in the summer gale which had blown up from the south and whistled up the narrow channel between the Swedish mainland and the island of Oland. There was but one significant difference between them – while Carey thought he was dying McCready knew he was dying.
They both felt better when they set foot ashore at Borgholm. There a car awaited them, and a police officer who introduced himself with a jerky bow as ‘Hoglund, Olof.’
‘I’m Carey and this is McCready.’ The wind blew off the sea and riffled his short grey hair. ‘Shall we get on with it?’
‘Certainly. This way.’ As Hoglund ushered them to the car he said, ‘Your Mr Thornton arrived an hour ago.’
Carey stopped dead in his tracks. ‘Has he, indeed?’ He glanced sideways at McCready, and muttered, ‘What the hell does he want?’
They were silent as they drove through the streets of Borgholm. It was not the time yet for talk; that would come later after they had seen what they had come to see. Carey’s mind was busy with speculations arising from the presence of Thornton, and even if he wanted to discuss it with McCready he could not do so in the presence of Hoglund.
The car pulled up in front of a two-storey building and they went inside, Hoglund leading the way. He took them into a back room where there was a trestle table set up. On the table was a long shape covered with a white cloth. Behind the table stood a short young man with a neat vandyke beard, who wore a white coat. Hoglund introduced him as Dr Carlson. ‘You already know Mr Thornton.’
Thornton was a tall, dark man of cadaverous features, smooth unlined skin and indecipherable expression. He was a young-looking sixty or an aged forty – it was hard to determine which and Thornton was not going to tell anybody. It was not his habit to tell anyone anything that did not concern him and he was chary of doing even that. He could have been Carey’s boss but he was not; Carey was proud and pleased to be in another department.
He lifted yellowed, dyspeptic eyes as Carey and McCready entered the room. Carey nodded to him curtly, and turned to Carlson. ‘Good afternoon, Doctor,’ he said in a weary voice. He was very tired. ‘May I see it?’
Carlson nodded without speaking and drew back the cloth. Carey looked down with an expressionless face and motioned for the cloth to be drawn back farther. ‘This is how he was found?’
‘The body has been cleaned externally,’ said Carlson. ‘It was covered with oil. And the manacles have been removed, of course.’
Carey nodded. ‘Of course. There was no clothing?’
‘The man was naked.’
McCready looked at Carey and raised his eyebrows. ‘The same as …’
Carey was unaccountably clumsy. He turned and trod heavily on McCready’s foot. ‘Sorry, George.’ He turned to Carlson. ‘What was the cause of death, Doctor?’
Carlson frowned. ‘That will have to await the autopsy,’ he said cautiously. ‘At the moment it is a question of whether he was drowned or poisoned.’
Thornton stepped forward. ‘Did you say poisoned?’ Carey analysed the tone of voice. In spite of Thornton’s habitual flatness of expression he thought he detected a note of genuine surprise.
‘I’ll show you,’ said Carlson. He opened the jaws of the corpse and took a long spatula and thrust it down the throat. McCready winced and turned away. Carlson withdrew the spatula and held it out. ‘A scraping from the inside of the throat.’
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/desmond-bagley/the-tightrope-men-the-enemy/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
Desmond Bagley
Double action thrillers by the classic adventure writer set in Norway, Finland and Sweden.THE TIGHTROPE MENWhen Giles Denison of Hampstead wakes up in an Oslo hotel room and finds the face looking back at him in the mirror is not his own, things could surely get no more bizarre. But it is only the beginning of a hair-raising adventure in which Denison finds himself trapped with no way to escape. One false move and the whole delicately balanced power structure between East and West will come toppling down…THE ENEMYWealthy, respectable George Ashton flees for his life after an acid attack on his daughter. Who is his enemy? Only Malcolm Jaggard, his future son-in-law, can guess, after seeing Ashton's top secret government file. In a desperate manhunt, Jaggard pits himself against the KGB and stalks Ashton to the silent, wintry forests of Sweden. But his search for the enemy has barely begun…Includes a unique bonus - Desmond Bagley's pen portrait, written for the original publication of The Tightrope Men.
DESMOND BAGLEY
The Tightrope Men
AND
The Enemy
COPYRIGHT (#ulink_f0603f1d-a40e-57ae-b749-684fb707f898)
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Harper
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by Collins 1973
Copyright © Brockhurst Publications 1973, 1977
Desmond Bagley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication
Source ISBN: 9780007304752
Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2013 ISBN: 9780007347698
Version: 2018-10-12
CONTENTS
Cover (#u3b558761-5d05-55c0-89d5-12e4763078ab)
Title Page (#ua21ab7f6-8142-5005-bfc0-62ea44929529)
Copyright (#u9c418278-4fe2-5010-8939-2083a86210a8)
The Tightrope Men (#u20dec09b-777f-5aab-8bf8-716cf0e404c2)
Praise (#u5a493720-5125-5ef5-be14-6c31b429d98f)
Dedication (#ue0d167a4-47ab-568e-a7da-63a04e7f2b60)
Epigraph (#u5db4eced-b467-53ac-ac47-1bfa1d005bd2)
One (#u204d12aa-8a8f-56f0-8402-03955693e44b)
Two (#u32d73367-938a-53df-8487-d796a5f35764)
Three (#ud50716d9-9845-5fa8-ab9c-aee4fe83a082)
Four (#udca58156-0e2a-5abd-bab1-fc2fb8bcd693)
Five (#u6c054d41-5b8c-50e4-b6b9-36de3b6f8c71)
Six (#u6c693d1d-a04a-523a-b072-4ff7250f0575)
Seven (#u8cad4961-405b-546c-ac20-aa6f6fa4c548)
Eight (#u130ed72a-7384-5809-874f-72e94f6147c2)
Nine (#uf45a1eb1-d77e-5ebd-82da-32c634072f00)
Ten (#u2588eb59-cf18-5457-a655-106e54d8408c)
Eleven (#u01f9f244-d785-5a85-be1e-c0e849a37692)
Twelve (#u6487b539-188c-50fb-8560-d493df7cbaf9)
Thirteen (#u861353ab-a3da-5dcf-bc35-6eec07c983cc)
Fourteen (#u85bc84c5-064e-5570-85ef-dd479d7a1669)
Fifteen (#u9cfca494-b6a8-5703-94a5-5f0eba209758)
Sixteen (#u8d677c80-4a5b-530f-acbd-5550886d82f8)
Seventeen (#ue45a9126-a3e3-5cb0-968a-dbfcd9bf060c)
Eighteen (#u566049f9-8392-5d54-80bd-f16cb6c60fbb)
Nineteen (#u61190ee3-9851-51d2-aa96-6220bfb3edae)
Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Forty (#litres_trial_promo)
The Enemy (#litres_trial_promo)
Praise (#litres_trial_promo)
Dedication (#litres_trial_promo)
One (#litres_trial_promo)
Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Forty (#litres_trial_promo)
‘Desmond Bagley’ (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
By the Same Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
THE TIGHTROPE MEN (#ulink_fc3f746d-ed3e-513e-a931-7880b219df3a)
PRAISE (#ulink_ca5ffa5a-277c-545c-82cf-5622714e1bda)
‘I’ve read all Bagley’s books and he’s marvellous, the best.’
ALISTAIR MACLEAN
‘Sizzling adventure.’
Evening Standard
‘Bagley has become a master of the genre – a thriller writer of intelligence and originality.’
Sunday Times
‘Compulsively readable.’
Guardian
‘From word one, you’re off. Bagley’s one of the best.’
The Times
‘The best adventure stories I have read for years.’
Daily Mirror
‘Bagley has no equal at this sort of thing.’
Sunday Mirror
‘Tense, heroic, chastening … a thumping good story.’
Sunday Express
‘The detail is immaculately researched – the action has the skill to grab your heart or your bowels.’
Daily Mirror
‘Bagley in top form.’
Evening Standard
‘Bagley is a master story-teller.’
Daily Mirror
DEDICATION (#ulink_8686052a-0e8b-5db0-90d3-e6ccd5bab8bc)
To Ray Poynton and all his team.
Fons et Origo,
He the one and I the other.
EPIGRAPH (#ulink_6b7710fe-8da1-541f-87f0-88ac6f06045d)
You may reasonably expect a man to walk a tightrope safely for ten minutes; it would be unreasonable to do so without accident for two hundred years.
Bertrand Russell
ONE (#ulink_3f974baf-d639-5ec9-8a6f-edf566e295d5)
Giles Denison lay asleep. He lay on his back with his right arm held crooked across his forehead with the hand lightly clenched into a fist, giving him a curiously defensive appearance as of one who wards off a blow. His breathing was even and shallow but it deepened a little as he came into consciousness in that everyday miracle of the reintegration of the psyche after the little death of sleep.
There was a movement of eyes behind closed lids and he sighed, bringing his arm down and turning over on to his side to snuggle deeper into the bedclothes. After a few moments the eyelids flickered and drew back and he stared uncomprehendingly at the blank wall next to the bed. He sighed again, filling his lungs with air, and then leisurely drew forth his arm and looked at his wristwatch.
It was exactly twelve o’clock.
He frowned and shook the watch, then held it to his ear. A steady tick told him it was working and another glance at the dial showed the sweep second hand jerking smoothly on its circular course.
Suddenly – convulsively – he sat up in bed and stared at the watch. It was not the time – midday or midnight – that now perturbed him, but the realization that this was not his watch. He normally wore a fifteen-year-old Omega, a present from his father on his twenty-first birthday, but this was a sleek Patek Philippe, gleaming gold, with a plain leather strap instead of the flexible metal band he was accustomed to.
A furrow creased his forehead as he stroked the dial of the watch with his forefinger and then, as he raised his eyes to look about the room, he received another shock. He had never been in the room before.
He became aware that his heart thumped in his chest and he raised his hand to feel the coolness of silk against his fingers. He looked down and saw the pyjamas. Habitually he slept peeled to the skin; pyjamas constricted him and he had once said that he never saw the sense in getting dressed to go to bed.
Denison was still half asleep and his first impulse was to lie down and wait for the dream to be over so that he could wake up again in his own bed, but a pressing necessity of nature was suddenly upon him and he had to go to the bathroom. He shook his head irritably and threw aside the bedclothes – not the sheets and blankets to which he was accustomed but one of those new-fangled quilt objects which fashion had recently imported from the Continent.
He swung his legs out of the bed and sat up, looking down at the pyjamas again. I’m in hospital, he thought suddenly; I must have had an accident. Recollection told him otherwise. He had gone to bed in his own flat in Hampstead in the normal way, after perhaps a couple of drinks too many the previous evening. Those extra couple of drinks had become a habit after Beth died.
His fingers caressed the softness of the silk. Not a hospital, he decided; these were not National Health issue – not with an embroidered monogram on the pocket. He twisted his head to see the letters but the embroidery was complex and the monogram upside down and he could not make it out.
He stood up and looked about the room and knew immediately he was in a hotel. There were expensive-looking suitcases and in no other place but a hotel room could you find special racks on which to put them. He walked three paces and stroked the fine-grained leather which had hardly a scuff mark. The initials on the side of the suitcase were plain and unmonogrammed – H.F.M.
His head throbbed with the beginning of a headache – the legacy of those extra couple of drinks – and his mouth was parched. He glanced around the room and noted the unrumpled companion bed, the jacket hanging tidily on the back of a chair and the scatter of personal possessions on the dressing-table. He was about to cross to the dressing-table when the pressure in his bladder became intolerable and he knew he had to find a bathroom.
He turned and stumbled into the small hall off the bedroom. One side was panelled in wood and he swung a door open to find a wardrobe full of hung clothes. He turned again and found a door on the other side which opened into darkness. He fumbled for a switch, found it, and light sprang up in a white-tiled bathroom.
While he was relieving himself his mind worried about the electric switch, wondering what was strange about it, and then he realized that it was reversed – an upward movement to turn on the light instead of the more normal down pressure.
He flushed the toilet and turned to the hand basin seeking water. Two glasses stood on a shelf, wrapped in translucent paper. He took one down, ripped off the paper and, filling it with water from the green-topped tap, he drank thirstily. Up to this moment he had been awake for, perhaps, three minutes.
He put down the glass and rubbed his left eye which was sore. Then he looked into the mirror above the basin and, for the first time in his life, experienced sheer terror.
TWO (#ulink_dad16438-df61-572c-a030-b245fbfa19da)
When Alice went through the Looking Glass the flowers talked to her and she evinced nothing but a mild surprise; but a psychologist once observed, ‘If a flower spoke to a man, that man would know terror.’
So it was with Giles Denison. After seeing the impossible in the bathroom mirror he turned and vomited into the toilet bowl, but his laboured retchings brought up nothing but a thin mucus. Panting with his efforts, he looked into the mirror again – and reason left him.
When he became self-aware he found himself prone on the bed, his hands shaped into claws which dug into the pillow. A single sentence was drumming through his mind with mechanical persistence. ‘I am Giles Denison! I am Giles Denison! I AM Giles Denison! I am GILES DENISON!’
Presently his heavy breathing quieted and he was able to think beyond that reiterated statement of identity. With his head sideways on the pillow he spoke aloud, gathering reassurance from the familiar sound of his own voice. In a slurred tone which gradually became firmer he said, ‘I am Giles Denison. I am thirty-six years old. I went to bed last night in my own home. I was a bit cut, that’s true, but not so drunk as to be incapable. I remember going to bed – it was just after midnight.’
He frowned, then said, ‘I’ve been hammering the bottle a bit lately, but I’m not an alcoholic – so this isn’t the DTs. Then what is it?’ His left hand moved up to stroke his cheek. ‘What the hell is this?’
He arose slowly and sat on the edge of the bed, screwing up his nerve to go back into the bathroom as he knew he must. When he stood up he found his whole body trembling and he waited a while until the fit had passed. Then he walked with slow paces into the bathroom to face again the stranger in the mirror.
The face that looked back at him was older – he judged the man to be in his mid-forties. Giles Denison had worn a moustache and a neatly clipped beard – the stranger was clean shaven. Giles Denison had a full head of hair – the stranger’s hair receded at the temples. Denison had no distinguishing marks as called for in passport descriptions – the stranger had an old scar on the left side of his face which passed from the temple across the cheekbone to the corner of the mouth; the left eyelid drooped, whether as a result of the scar or not it was impossible to say. There was also a small portwine birthmark on the angle of the right jaw.
If that had been all perhaps Denison would not have been so frightened, but the fact was that the face was different. Denison had been proud in a non-committal way of his aquiline good looks. Aquiline was the last word to describe the face of the stranger. The face was pudgy, the nose a round, featureless blob, and there was an incipient but perceptible double chin.
Denison opened his mouth to look at the stranger’s teeth and caught the flash of a gold capping on a back molar. He closed both his mouth and his eyes and stood there for a while because the trembling had begun again. When he opened his eyes he kept them averted from the mirror and looked down at his hands which were gripping the edge of the basin. They were different, too; the skin looked older and the nails were shortened to the quick as though the stranger bit them. There was another old cicatrice on the back of the right thumb, and the backs of the forefinger and middle finger were stained with nicotine.
Denison did not smoke.
He turned blindly from the mirror and went back into the bedroom where he sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the blank wall. His mind threatened to retreat to the mere insistence of identity and yammered at him, ‘I AM GILES DENISON!’ and the trembling began again, but with an effort of will he dragged himself back from the edge of that mental precipice and forced himself to think as coherently as he could.
Presently he stood up and went to the window because the street noises forced themselves on his attention in an odd way. He heard an impossible sound, a sound that brought back memories of his childhood. He drew back the curtain and looked into the street to find its origin.
The tramcar was passing just below with the accompanying clangour of a past era of transport. Beyond it, in a dazzle of bright sunshine, were gardens and a bandstand and an array of bright umbrellas over tables where people sat eating and drinking. Beyond the gardens was another street filled with moving traffic.
Another tramcar passed and Denison caught a glimpse of the destination board. It made no sense to him because it seemed to be in a foreign language. There was something else odd about the tramcar and his eyes narrowed as he saw there were two single-deck coaches coupled together. He looked across the street at the fascia boards of the shops and found the words totally meaningless.
His head was aching worse than ever so he dropped the curtain to avoid the bright wash of sunlight and turned into the dimness of the room. He crossed to the dressing-table and looked down at the scatter of objects – a cigarette case, apparently of gold, a smoothly modelled cigarette lighter, a wallet and a note-case, and a handful of loose change.
Denison sat down, switched on the table lamp, and picked up one of the silver coins. The head depicted in profile was that of a fleshy man with a prow of a nose; there was something of the air of a Roman emperor about him. The wording was simple: OLAV.V.R. Denison turned the coin over to find a prancing horse and the inscription: I KRONE. NORGE.
Norway!
Denison began to feel his mind spin again and he bent forward as a sudden stomach cramp hit him. He laid down the coin and held his head in his hands until he felt better. Not a lot better, but marginally so.
When he had recovered enough he took the wallet and went through the pockets quickly, tossing the contents into a heap on the table top. The wallet emptied, he put it aside after noting its fine quality and began to examine the papers. There was an English driving licence in the name of Harold Feltham Meyrick of Lippscott House, near Brackley, Buckinghamshire. Hair prickled at the nape of Denison’s neck as he looked at the signature. It was in his own handwriting. It was not his name but it was his penmanship – of that he was certain.
He stretched out his hand and took a pen, one of a matched set of fountain pen and ballpoint. He looked around for something on which to write, saw nothing, and opened the drawer in front of him where he found a folder containing writing paper and envelopes. He paused for a moment when he saw the letter heading – HOTEL CONTINENTAL, STORTINGS GATA, OSLO.
His hand trembled as the pen approached the paper but he scribbled his signature firmly enough – Giles Denison. He looked at the familiar loops and curlicues and felt immeasurably better, then he wrote another signature – H. F. Meyrick. He took the driving licence and compared it with what he had just written. It confirmed what he already knew; the signature in the driving licence was in his own handwriting.
So were the signatures in a fat book of Cook’s traveller’s cheques. He counted the cheques – nineteen of them at £50 each – £950 in all. If he was indeed Meyrick he was pretty well breeched. His headache grew worse.
There were a dozen engraved visiting cards with Meyrick’s name and address and a fat sheaf of Norwegian currency in the note-case which he did not bother to count. He dropped it on to the desk and held his throbbing head in his hands. In spite of the fact that he had just woken up he felt tired and light-headed. He knew he was in danger of going into psychological retreat again; it would be so easy to curl up on the bed and reject this crazy, impossible thing that had happened to him, taking refuge in sleep with the hope that it would prove to be a dream and that when he woke he would be back in bed in his own flat in Hampstead, a thousand miles away.
He opened the drawer a fraction, put his fingers inside, and then smashed the drawer closed with the heel of his other hand. He gasped with the pain and when he drew his hand from the drawer there were flaring red marks on the backs of his fingers. The pain caused tears to come to his eyes and, as he nursed his hand, he knew this was too real to be a dream.
So if it was not a dream, what was it? He had gone to bed as one person and woken up, in another country, as another. But wait! That was not quite accurate. He had woken up knowing he was Giles Denison – the persona of – Harold Feltham Meyrick was all on the exterior – inside he was still Giles Denison.
He was about to pursue this line of thought when he had another spasm of stomach cramp and suddenly he realized why he felt so weak and tired. He was ravenously hungry. Painfully he stood up and went in to the bathroom where he stared down into the toilet bowl. He had been violently sick but his stomach had been so empty that there was hardly anything to be brought up but a thin, acid digestive juice. And yet the previous evening he had had a full meal. Surely there was something wrong there.
He went back into the bedroom and paused irresolutely by the telephone and then, with a sudden access of determination, picked it up. ‘Give me room service,’ he said. His voice was hoarse and strange in his own ears.
The telephone crackled. ‘Room service,’ it said in accented English.
‘I’d like something to eat,’ said Denison. He glanced at his watch – it was nearly two o’clock. ‘A light lunch.’
‘Open sandwiches?’ suggested the telephone.
‘Something like that,’ said Denison. ‘And a pot of coffee.’
‘Yes, sir. The room number is …?’
Denison did not know. He looked around hastily and saw what must be the room key on a low coffee-table by the window. It was attached to about five pounds of brass on which a number was stamped. ‘Three-sixty,’ he said.
‘Very good, sir.’
Denison was inspired. ‘Can you send up a newspaper?’
‘English or Norwegian, sir?’
‘One of each.’
‘The Times?’
‘That and an equivalent local paper. And I may be in the bathroom when you come up – just leave everything on the table.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Denison put down the telephone with a feeling of relief. He would have to face people some time but he did not feel eager to do so immediately. Certainly he would have to ask a lot of questions, but he wanted time to compose himself. He could not help feeling there would be a lot of trip wires to avoid in the taking over of another personality.
He took the silk Paisley dressing-gown which he found draped over a chair and went into the bathroom, where he was coward enough to hang a towel over the mirror. After fumbling for a moment with unfamiliar plumbing, he drew a bath of hot water, then stripped off the pyjamas. He became aware of the sticking-plaster on his left arm and was about to take it off but he thought better of it, wondering if he really wanted to know what was underneath.
He got into the bath and soaked in the hot water, feeling the heat ease his suddenly aching limbs, and again, he drowsily wondered why he felt so tired after being up only two hours. Presently he heard the door of the suite open and there was a clatter of crockery. The door banged closed and everything was quiet again so he got out of the bath and began to rub himself down.
While sitting on the cork-topped stool he suddenly bent forward and examined his left shin. There was a blue-white scar there, about the size and shape of an orange pip. He remembered when that had happened; it was when he was eight years old and had fallen off his first bicycle.
He raised his head and laughed aloud, feeling much better. He had remembered that as Giles Denison and that little scar was a part of his body that did not belong to Mr Harold Blasted Feltham Bloody Meyrick.
THREE (#ulink_c0df6008-93e3-5b6d-aa61-a17479abac55)
The Norwegian idea of a light lunch was an enormous tray filled with a variety of edible goodies which Denison surveyed with satisfaction before plunging in. The discovery of the scar had cheered him immensely and had even emboldened him to shave Meyrick’s face. Meyrick was old-fashioned enough to use a safety-razor and a silver-mounted badger-hair brush instead of an electric shaver and Denison had had some difficulty in guiding the blade over unfamiliar contours and had cut himself – or Meyrick – twice. And so, when he picked up the newspapers, his face was adorned with two bloody patches of toilet paper.
The London Times and the Norwegian Aftenposten both had the same date – July 9 – and Denison went very still, a piece of herring on rye bread poised in mid-air. His last memory as Giles Denison had been going to bed just after midnight on July 1 – no, it would be July 2 if it was after midnight.
Somewhere he had lost a week.
He put his hand to his arm and felt the sticking-plaster. Someone had been doing things to him. He did not know who and he did not know why but, by God, he was going to find out and someone was going to pay dearly. While shaving he had examined his face closely. The scar on his left cheek was there all right, the remnant of an old wound, but it did not feel like a scar when he touched it. Still, no matter how hard he rubbed it would not come off, so it was not merely an example of clever theatrical make-up. The same applied to the birthmark on the right jaw.
There was something else odd about his nose and his cheeks and that double chin. They had a rubbery feel about them. Not ever having had any excess fat on his body he did not know whether this was normal or not. And, again, Meyrick’s face had grown a little stubble of hair which he had shaved off, but the bald temples were smooth which meant that whoever had lifted his hairline had not done it by shaving.
The only part of his face Denison recognized were his eyes – those had not changed; they were still the same grey-green eyes he had seen every morning in the mirror. But the expression was different because of the droop of the left eyelid. There was a slight soreness in the outer corner of that eye which aroused his suspicions but he could see nothing but a tiny inflamed spot which could have been natural.
As he ate voraciously he glanced through The Times. The world still seemed to be wobbling on its political axis as unsteadily as ever and nothing had changed, so he tossed the newspaper aside and gave himself up to thought over a steaming cup of black coffee. What could be the motive for spiriting a man from his own bed, transforming him bodily, giving him a new personality and dumping him in a luxury hotel in the capital of Norway?
No answer.
The meal had invigorated him and he felt like moving and not sitting. He did not yet feel up to encountering people so he compromised by going through Meyrick’s possessions. He opened the wardrobe and in one of the drawers, underneath a pile of underwear, he found a large travelling wallet. Taking it to the dressing-table he unzipped it and went through the contents.
The first thing to catch his eyes was a British passport. He opened it to find the description of the holder was filled out in his own handwriting as was Meyrick’s signature underneath. The face that looked out of the photograph on the opposite page was that of Meyrick, who was described as a civil servant. Whoever had thought up this lark had been thorough about it.
He flipped through the pages and found only one stamped entry and his brow wrinkled as he studied it. Sverige? Would that be Sweden? If so he had arrived at a place called Arlanda in Sweden on a date he could not tell because the stamping was blurred. Turning to the back of the passport he found that the sum of £1,500 had been issued a month earlier. Since the maximum travel allowance for a tourist was £300 it would seem that H. F. Meyrick was operating on a businessman’s allowance.
At the bottom of a pocket in the wallet he found an American Express credit card, complete with the ubiquitous fake signature. He looked at it pensively, flicking it with his fingernail. With this he could draw money or traveller’s cheques anywhere; he could use it to buy an airline ticket to Australia if he felt the urge to emigrate suddenly. It represented complete and unlicensed freedom unless and until someone put a stopper on it at head office.
He transferred it to the small personal wallet along with the driving licence. It would be better to keep that little bit of plastic available in case of need.
Meyrick had an extensive wardrobe; casual clothing, lounge suits and even a dinner-jacket with accessories. Denison investigated a small box and found it contained personal jewellery – studs, tiepins and a couple of rings – and he realized he probably held a thousand pounds’ worth of gold in his hand. The Patek Philippe watch on his wrist would cost £500 if it cost a penny. H. F. Meyrick was a wealthy man, so what kind of a civil servant did that make him?
Denison decided to get dressed. It was a sunny day so he chose casual trousers and a sports coat. The clothing fitted him as though made to measure. He looked at himself in the full-length mirror built into the wardrobe door, studiously ignoring the face on top of the body, and thought crazily that it, too, had probably been made to measure. The world began to spin again, but he remembered the small scar on his shin that belonged to Denison and that helped him to recover.
He put his personal possessions into his pockets and headed for the door, key in hand. As the door swung open a card which had been hung on the outer handle fell to the floor. He picked it up and read: VENNLIGST IKKE FORSTYRR – PLEASE DO NOT DISTURB. He was thoughtful as he hung it on the hook inside the door before locking the room; he would give a lot to know who had hung out that sign.
He went down in the lift with a couple of American blue-rinsed matrons who chattered to each other in a mid-West twang. ‘Say, have you been out to Vigeland Park? All those statues – I didn’t know where to look.’ The lift stopped and the doors slid open with a soft hiss, and the American ladies bustled out intent on sightseeing.
Denison followed them diffidently into the hotel lobby and stood by the lifts for a while, trying to get his bearings, doing his best to appear nonchalantly casual while he took in the scene.
‘Mr Meyrick … Mr Meyrick, sir!’
He turned his head and saw the porter at the desk smiling at him. Licking lips that had suddenly gone dry he walked over. ‘Yes?’
‘Would you mind signing this, sir? The check for the meal in your room. Just a formality.’
Denison looked at the proffered pen and laid down the room key. He took the pen and scribbled firmly ‘H. F. Meyrick’ and pushed the slip across the counter. The porter was hanging the key on the rack but he turned and spoke to Denison before he could slip away. ‘The night porter put your car away, sir. Here is the key.’
He held out a key with a tag on it and Denison extended his hand to take it. He glanced at the tag and saw the name, Hertz, and a car number. He cleared his throat. ‘Thank you.’
‘You sound as though you have a cold coming on,’ said the porter.
Denison took a chance. ‘Why do you think that?’
‘Your voice sounds different.’
‘Yes, I do feel a bit chesty,’ said Denison.
The porter smiled. ‘Too much night air, perhaps.’
Denison took another chance. ‘What time did I get in last night?’
‘This morning, sir. The night porter said it was about three o’clock.’ The porter offered Denison a man-of-the-world smile. ‘I wasn’t surprised when you slept in this morning.’
No, thought Denison; but I was! He was growing bolder as he gained confidence. ‘Can you tell me something? I was having a discussion with a friend about how long I’ve been here in Oslo and, for the life of me, I can’t remember the exact day I booked in here. Could you check it for me?’
‘Certainly, sir.’ The porter moved away and began to run through cards in a file. Denison looked at the car key. It was thoughtful of Hertz to put the car number on the tag; he might even be able to recognize it when he saw it. It was also thoughtful of the night porter to put the car away – but where the hell had he put it?
The porter returned. ‘You checked in on the eighteenth of June, sir. Exactly three weeks ago.’
The butterflies in Denison’s stomach collided. ‘Thank you,’ he said mechanically, and moved away from the desk and across the lobby. An arrow pointed the direction to the bar and he glanced sideways and saw a dark, cool cavern with a few drinkers, solitary or in couples. It looked quiet and he desperately wanted to think, so he went in.
When the barman came up, he said, ‘A beer, please.’
‘Export, sir?’
Denison nodded absently. June 18. He had reckoned he had lost a week so how the devil could he have booked into the Hotel Continental in Oslo three weeks earlier? How the hell could he have been in two places at the same time?
The barman returned, poured the beer into a glass, and went away. Denison tried to figure where he had been on June 18 and found it difficult. Three weeks was a long time. Where were you at 6.17 on the evening of June 18? No wonder people found it difficult to establish alibis. He found it extraordinarily difficult to focus his thoughts; they flicked about, skittering here and there wildly out of control. When did you last see your father? Nuts!
A vagrant thought popped to the surface of his consciousness. Edinburgh! He had been to Edinburgh On the 17th and the 18th he had taken off as a reward for hard work. There had been a leisurely morning and he had played golf in the afternoon; he had gone to the cinema in the evening and had dined late in Soho, getting back to Hampstead fairly late.
He – as Giles Denison – had dined in Soho at about the same time as he – as Harold Feltham Meyrick – had dined in Oslo. Where was the sense of that?
He was aware that he was looking at bubbles rising in amber liquid and that he had not touched his beer. He lifted the glass and drank; it was cold and refreshing.
He had two things going for him – two things that kept him sane. One – Giles Denison’s scar on H. F. Meyrick’s shin – and two – the change in the timbre of Meyrick’s voice as recognized by the hotel porter. And what did that imply? Obviously that there were two Meyricks; one who had booked in on June 18, and another – himself – who had just been planted. Never mind why and never mind how. Just accept the fact that it was done.
He drank some more beer and rested his chin in his hand, feeling the unaccustomed flab of his jowl. He had lost a week of his life. Could so much plastic surgery be done in a week? He added that to the list of things to be checked on.
And what to do? He could go to the British Embassy and tell his story. Mentally he ran through the scenario.
‘What can we do for you, Mr Meyrick?’
‘Well the fact is I’m not Meyrick – whoever he is. My name is Giles Denison and I’ve been kidnapped from London, my face changed, and dumped into an Oslo hotel with a hell of a lot of money and an unlimited credit account. Can you help me?’
‘Certainly, Mr Meyrick. Miss Smith, will you ring for a doctor?’
‘My God!’ said Denison aloud. ‘I’d end up in the loony-bin.’
The barman cocked his head and came over. ‘You wish something, sir?’
‘Just to pay,’ said Denison, finishing his beer.
He paid from the loose change in his pocket and left the bar. In the lobby he spotted a sign saying GARAGE, so he went through a door and down a flight of stairs to emerge into a basement car park. He checked the number on the Hertz key and walked along the first row of cars. It was right at the end – a big black Mercedes. He unlocked the door.
The first thing he saw was the doll on the driver’s seat, a most curious object made of crudely carved wood and rope. The body was formed of rope twisted into a spiral and coming out in the form of a tail. His feet were but roughly indicated and the head was a round knob with a peg nose. The eyes and a mouth twisted to one side had been inked on to the wood, and the hair was of rope teased out into separate strands. It was a strange and somehow repulsive little figure.
He picked it up and discovered a piece of paper underneath it. He unfolded the deckle-edged note-paper and read the scrawled handwriting: Your Drammen Dolly awaits you at Spiraltoppen. Early morning, July 10.
He frowned. July 10 was next day, but where was Spiraltoppen and who – or what – was a Drammen Dolly? He looked at the ugly little doll. It had been lying on the driver’s seat as though it had been deliberately left for him to find. He tossed it in his hand a couple of times and then thrust it into his pocket. It made an unsightly bulge, but what did he care? It was not his jacket. The note he put into his wallet.
The car was almost new, with just over 500 kilometres on the clock. He found a sheaf of papers relating to the car hire; it had been rented five days earlier, a fact which was singularly devoid of informative content. There was nothing else to be found.
He got out of the car, locked it, and left the garage by the car entrance, emerging on to a street behind the hotel. It was a little bewildering for him; the traffic drove on the wrong side of the road, the street and shop signs were indecipherable and his command of Norwegian was minimal, being restricted to one word – skal – which, while being useful in a cheery sort of way, was not going to be of much use for the more practical things of life.
What he needed was information and he found it on the corner of the street in the form of a bookshop. He went inside and found an array of maps from which he selected a map of central Oslo, one of Greater Oslo, and a motoring map of Southern Norway. To these he added a guide to the city and paid out of the slab of Norwegian currency in Meyrick’s wallet. He made a mental note to count that money as soon as he had privacy.
He left the shop intending to go back to the hotel where he could study the maps and orient himself. He paused on the pavement and rubbernecked at the corner of a building where one would normally expect to find a street name – and there it was – Roald Amundsens Gata.
‘Harry!’
He turned to go in the direction of the hotel but paused as he felt a hand on his arm. ‘Harry Meyrick!’ There was a note of anger in the voice. She was a green-eyed redhead of about thirty and she was flying alarm flags – her lips were compressed and pink spots glowed in her cheeks. ‘I’m not used to being stood up,’ she said. ‘Where were you this morning?’
Momentarily he was nonplussed but remembered in time what the hotel porter had thought about his voice. ‘I wasn’t feeling well,’ he managed to get out. ‘I was in bed.’
‘There’s a thing called a telephone,’ she said angrily. ‘Alexander Graham Bell invented it – remember?’
‘I was knocked out by sleeping pills,’ he protested. With a small portion of his mind he noted that this was probably a true statement. ‘Perhaps I overdid it.’
Her expression changed. ‘You do sound a bit glued-up,’ she admitted. ‘Maybe I’ll forgive you.’ There was a faint American undertone to her English. ‘It will cost you a drink, darling.’
‘In the hotel?’ he suggested.
‘It’s too nice a day to be inside. We’ll go into the Studenterlunden.’ She waved her arm past a passing articulated tramcar towards the gay umbrellas in the gardens on the other side of the street.
Denison felt trapped as he escorted her across the street, but he also realized that if he was to learn anything about Meyrick then this was too good a chance to pass up. He had once been accosted in the street by a woman who obviously knew him but he did not have the faintest idea of who she was. There is a point of no return in that type of conversation after which one cannot, in decency, admit ignorance. On that occasion Denison had fumbled it, had suffered half an hour of devious conversation, and they had parted amicably without him finding out who she was. He still did not know. Grimly he thought that it was good practice for today’s exercise.
As they crossed the street she said, ‘I saw Jack Kidder this morning. He was asking about you.’
‘How is he?’
She laughed. ‘Fine, as always. You know Jack.’
‘Of course,’ said Denison deadpan. ‘Good old Jack.’
They went into the outdoor café and found an empty table with difficulty. Under other circumstances Denison would have found it pleasant to have a drink with a pretty woman in surroundings like this, but his mind was beleaguered by his present problems. They sat down and he put his parcel of maps on the table.
One of them slipped out of the packet and his main problem prodded at it with a well-manicured forefinger. ‘What are these?’
‘Maps,’ said Denison succinctly.
‘Maps of where?’
‘Of the city.’
‘Oslo!’ She seemed amused. ‘Why do you want maps of Oslo? Isn’t it your boast that you know Oslo better than London?’
‘They’re for a friend.’
Denison chalked up a mental note. Meyrick knows Oslo well; probably a frequent visitor. Steer clear of local conditions or gossip. Might run into more problems like this.
‘Oh!’ She appeared to lose interest.
Denison realized he was faced with a peculiar difficulty. He did not know this woman’s name and, as people do not commonly refer to themselves by name in conversation, he did not see how he was going to get it, short of somehow prying into her handbag and looking for identification.
‘Give me a cigarette, darling,’ she said.
He patted his pockets and found he had left the cigarette case and lighter in the room. Not being a smoker it had not occurred to him to put them in his pocket along with the rest of Meyrick’s personal gear. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t have any with me.’
‘My!’ she said. ‘Don’t tell me the great Professor Meyrick has stopped smoking. Now I will believe in cancer.’
Professor!
He used the pretext of illness again. ‘The one I tried this morning tasted like straw. Maybe I will stop smoking.’ He held his hand over the table. ‘Look at those nicotine stains. Imagine what my lungs must be like.’
She shook her head in mock sorrow. ‘It’s like pulling down a national monument. To imagine Harry Meyrick without a cigarette is like trying to imagine Paris without the Eiffel Tower.’
A Nordic waitress came to the table; she looked rather like Jeanette MacDonald dressed for an appearance in White Horse Inn. Denison raised his eyebrows at his companion. ‘What will you have?’
‘The usual,’ she said indifferently, delving into her handbag.
He took refuge in a paroxysm of coughing pulling out his handkerchief and only emerging when he heard her giving the order. He waited until the waitress left before putting away the handkerchief. The woman opposite him said, ‘Harry, that’s a really bad cough. I’m not surprised you’re thinking of giving up the cancer sticks. Are you feeling all right, darling? Maybe you’d be better off in bed, after all.’
‘I’m all right,’ he said.
‘Are you sure?’ she asked solicitously.
‘Perfectly sure.’
‘Spoken like the old Professor Meyrick,’ she said mockingly. ‘Always sure of everything.’
‘Don’t call me Professor,’ he said testily. It was a safe enough thing to say regardless of whether Meyrick was really a professor or whether she was pulling his leg in a heavy-handed manner. The British have never been keen on the over-use of professional titles. And it might provoke her into dropping useful information.
All he got was a light and inconsequential, ‘When on the Continent do as the Continentals do.’
He went on the attack. ‘I don’t like it.’
‘You’re so British, Harry.’ He thought he detected a cutting edge to her voice. ‘But then, of course, you would be.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Oh, come off it. There’s nobody more British than an outsider who has bored his way in. Where were you born, Harry? Somewhere in Mittel Europa?’ She suddenly looked a little ashamed. ‘I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have said that. I’m being bitchy, but you’re behaving a bit oddly, too.’
‘The effect of the pills. Barbiturates have never agreed with me. I have a headache.’
She opened her handbag. ‘I have aspirin.’
The waitress, Valkyrie-like, bore down on them. Denison looked at the bottles on the tray, and said, ‘I doubt if aspirin goes with beer.’ That was the last thing he would have thought of as ‘the usual’; she did not look the beery type.
She shrugged and closed the bag with a click. ‘Please yourself.’
The waitress put down two glasses, two bottles of beer and a packet of cigarettes, said something rapid and incomprehensible, and waited expectantly. Denison took out his wallet and selected a 100-kroner note. Surely two beers and a packet of cigarettes could not cost more than a hundred kroner. My God, he did not even know the value of the currency! This was like walking through a minefield blindfolded.
He was relieved when the waitress made no comment but made change from a leather bag concealed under her apron. He laid the money on the table intending to check it surreptitiously. The redhead said, ‘You’ve no need to buy my cigarettes, Harry.’
He smiled at her. ‘Be my guest,’ he said, and stretched out his hand to pour her beer.
‘You’ve given it up yourself but you’re quite prepared to pay for other people’s poison.’ She laughed. ‘Not a very moral attitude.’
‘I’m not a moral philosopher,’ he said, hoping it was true.
‘No, you’re not,’ she agreed. ‘I’ve always wondered where you stood in that general direction. What would you call yourself, Harry? Atheist? Agnostic? Humanist?’
At last he was getting something of the quality of Meyrick. Those were questions but they were leading questions, and he was quite prepared to discuss philosophy with her – a nice safe subject. ‘Not an atheist,’ he said. ‘It’s always seemed to me that to believe in the non-existence of something is somewhat harder than to believe in its existence. I’d put myself down as an agnostic – one of the “don’t know” majority. And that doesn’t conflict with humanism.’
He fingered the notes and coins on the table, counted them mentally, subtracted the price of two beers based on what he had paid for a beer in the hotel, and arrived at the price of a packet of cigarettes. Roughly, that is. He had an idea that the price of a beer in a luxury hotel would be far higher than in an open-air café.
‘I went to church last Sunday,’ she said pensively. ‘To the English church – you know – the one on Møllergata.’ He nodded as though he did know. ‘I didn’t get much out of it. I think next time I’ll try the American church.’ She frowned. ‘Where is the American church, Harry?’
He had to say something, so he took a chance. ‘Isn’t it near the Embassy?’
Her brow cleared. ‘Of course. Between Bygdøy Alle and Drammens Veien. It’s funny, isn’t it? The American church being practically next door to the British Embassy. You’d expect it to be near the American Embassy.’
He gulped. ‘Yes, you would,’ he said, and forbore to mention that that was what he had meant. Even a quasi-theological conversation was strewn with pitfalls. He had to get out of this before he really dropped a clanger.
And an alarming suspicion had just sprung to mind, fully armed and spiky. Whoever had planted him in that hotel room and provided him with money and the means to provide all the necessities of life – and a lot of the luxuries, too – was unlikely to leave him unobserved. Someone would be keeping tabs on him, otherwise the whole operation was a nonsense. Could it be this redhead who apparently had qualms about her immortal soul? What could be better than to plant someone right next to him for closer observation?
She opened the packet of cigarettes and offered him one. ‘You’re sure you won’t?’
He shook his head. ‘Quite sure.’
‘It must be marvellous to have will power.’
He wanted peace and not this continuous exploration of a maze where every corner turned could be more dangerous than the last. He started to cough again, and dragged his handkerchief from his pocket. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said in a muffled voice. ‘I think you’re right; I’d be better off in bed. Do you mind if I leave you?’
‘Of course not.’ Her voice was filled with concern. ‘Do you want a doctor?’
‘That’s not necessary,’ he said. ‘I’ll be all right tomorrow – I know how these turns take me.’ He stood up and she also rose. ‘Don’t bother to come with me. The hotel is only across the road.’
He picked up the packet and thrust the maps back into it, and put the handkerchief into his pocket. She looked down at his feet. ‘You’ve dropped something,’ she said, and stooped to pick it up. ‘Why, it’s a Spiralen Doll.’
‘A what?’ he asked incautiously. It must have been pulled from his pocket when he took out the handkerchief.
She regarded him oddly. ‘You pointed these out at the Spiralen when we were there last week. You laughed at them and called them tourist junk. Don’t you remember?’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘It’s just this damned headache.’
She laughed. ‘I didn’t expect to see you carrying one. You didn’t buy this when we were there – where did you get it?’
He told the truth. ‘I found it in the car I hired.’
‘You can’t trust anyone to do a good job these days,’ she said, smiling. ‘Those cars are supposed to be cleaned and checked.’ She held it out. ‘Do you want it?’
‘I may be a bit light-headed,’ he said, ‘but I think I do.’ He took it from her. ‘I’ll be going now.’
‘Have a hot toddy and a good night’s sleep,’ she advised. ‘And ring me as soon as you’re better.’
That would be difficult, to say the least, with neither telephone number nor name. ‘Why don’t you give me a ring tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll be well enough to have dinner. I promise not to stand you up again.’
‘I’ll ring you tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Promise,’ he insisted, not wanting to lose her.
‘Promise.’
He put the rope doll into his pocket and left her with a wave, and went out of the garden, across the road and into the hotel, feeling relieved that he was well out of a difficult situation. Information, he thought, as he walked across the hotel lobby; that’s what I need – I’m hamstrung without it.
He paused at the porter’s desk and the porter looked up with a quick smile. ‘Your key, sir?’ He swung around and unhooked it.
On impulse Denison held out the doll. ‘What’s that?’
The porter’s smile broadened. ‘That’s a Spiralen Doll, sir.’
‘Where does it come from?’
‘From the Spiralen, sir – in Drammen. If you’re interested, I have a pamphlet.’
‘I’m very much interested,’ said Denison.
The porter looked through papers on a shelf and came up with a leaflet printed in blue ink. ‘You must be an engineer, sir.’
Denison did not know what the hell Meyrick was. ‘It’s in my general field of interest,’ he said guardedly, took the key and the leaflet, and walked towards the lifts. He did not notice the man who had been hovering behind him and who regarded him speculatively until the lift door closed.
Once in his room Denison tossed the maps and the leaflet on to the dressing-table and picked up the telephone. ‘I’d like to make a long distance call, please – to England.’ He took out his wallet.
‘What is the number, sir?’
‘There’s a little difficulty about that. I don’t have a number – only an address.’ He opened the wallet with one hand and extracted one of Meyrick’s cards.
The telephonist was dubious. ‘That may take some time, sir.’
‘It doesn’t matter – I’ll be in my room for the rest of the day.’
‘What is the address sir?’
Denison said clearly, ‘Lippscott House, near Brackley, Buckinghamshire, England.’ He repeated it three times to make sure it had got across.
‘And the name?’
Denison opened his mouth and then closed it, having suddenly acquired a dazed look. He would appear to be a damned fool if he gave the name of Meyrick – no one in his right mind rings up himself, especially after having admitted he did not know his own telephone number. He swallowed, and said shortly, ‘The name is not known.’
The telephone sighed in his ear. ‘I’ll do my best, sir.’
Denison put down the telephone and settled in a chair to find out about the Spiralen. The front of the leaflet was headed: DRAMMEN. There was an illustration of a Spiralen Doll which did not look any better for being printed in blue. The leaflet was in four languages.
The Spiralen was described as being ‘a truly unique attraction, as well as a superb piece of engineering.’ Apparently there had been a quarry at the foot of Bragernesasen, a hill near Drammen, which had become an eyesore until the City Fathers decided to do something about it. Instead of quarrying the face of the hill the operation had been extended into the interior.
A tunnel had been driven into the hill, thirty feet wide, fifteen feet high and a mile long. But not in a straight line. It turned back on itself six complete times in a spiral drilled into the mountain, climbing five hundred feet until it came out on top of Bragernesasen where the Spiraltoppen Restaurant was open all the year round. The views were said to be excellent.
Denison picked up the doll; its body was formed of six complete turns of rope. He grinned weakly.
Consultation of the maps revealed that Drammen was a small town forty kilometres west of Oslo. That would be a nice morning drive, and he could get back in the afternoon well in time for any call from the redhead. It was not much to go on, but it was all he had.
He spent the rest of the afternoon searching through Meyrick’s possessions but found nothing that could be said to be a clue. He ordered dinner to be sent to his room because he suspected that the hotel restaurant might be full of unexploded human mines like the redhead he had met, and there was a limit to what he could get away with.
The telephone call came when he was half-way through dinner. There were clicks and crackles and a distant voice said, ‘Dr Meyrick’s residence.’
Doctor!
‘I’d like to speak to Dr Meyrick.’
‘I’m sorry, sir; but Dr Meyrick is not at home.’
‘Have you any idea where I can find him?’
‘He is out of the country at the moment, sir.’
‘Oh! Have you any idea where?’
There was a pause. ‘I believe he is travelling in Scandinavia, sir.’
This was not getting anywhere at all. ‘Who am I speaking to?’
‘This is Andrews – Dr Meyrick’s personal servant. Would you like to leave a message, sir?’
‘Do you recognize my voice, Andrews?’ asked Denison.
A pause. ‘It’s a bad line.’ Another pause. ‘I don’t believe in guessing games on the telephone, sir.’
‘All right,’ said Denison. ‘When you see Dr Meyrick will you tell him that Giles Denison called, and I’ll be getting in touch with him as soon as possible. Got that?’
‘Giles Denison. Yes, Mr Denison.’
‘When is Dr Meyrick expected home?’
‘I really couldn’t say, Mr Denison.’
‘Thank you, Mr Andrews.’
Denison put down the telephone. He felt depressed.
FOUR (#ulink_51bfb147-79be-5d71-8cb8-56cf8273e9fc)
He slept poorly that night. His sleep was plagued with dreams which he did not remember clearly during the few times he was jerked into wakefulness but which he knew were full of monstrous and fearful figures which threatened him. In the early hours of the morning he fell into a heavy sleep which deadened senses and when he woke he felt heavy and listless.
He got up tiredly and twitched aside the window curtain to find that the weather had changed; the sky was a dull grey and the pavements were wet and a fine drizzle filled the air. The outdoor café in the gardens opposite would not be doing much business that day.
He rang down for breakfast and then had a shower, finishing with needle jets of cold water in an attempt to whip some enthusiasm into his suddenly heavy body and, to a degree, he succeeded. When the floor waitress came in with his breakfast he had dressed in trousers and white polo-necked sweater and was combing his hair before the bathroom mirror. Incredibly enough, he was whistling in spite of having Meyrick’s face before him.
The food helped, too, although it was unfamiliar and a long way from an English breakfast. He rejected the raw, marinated herring and settled for a boiled egg, bread and marmalade and coffee. After breakfast he checked the weather again and then selected a jacket and a short topcoat from the wardrobe. He also found a thin, zippered leather satchel into which he put the maps and the Spiralen leaflet which had a street plan of Drammen on the back. Then he went down to the car. It was exactly nine o’clock.
It was not easy getting out of town. The car was bigger and more powerful than those he had been accustomed to driving and he had to keep to what was to him the wrong side of the road in a strange city in early rush-hour traffic. Three times he missed signs and took wrong turnings. The first time he did this he cruised on and got hopelessly lost and had to retrace his path laboriously. Thereafter when he missed a turn he reversed immediately so as not to lose his way again.
He was quite unaware of the man following him in the Swedish Volvo. Denison’s erratic course across the city of Oslo was causing him a lot of trouble, especially when Denison did his quick and unexpected reversals. The man, whose name was Armstrong, swore freely and frequently, and his language became indescribable when the drizzle intensified into a downpour of heavy driving rain.
Denison eventually got out of the centre of the city and on to a six-lane highway, three lanes each way. The windscreen wipers had to work hard to cope with the rain, but it was better when he fiddled with a switch and discovered they had two speeds. Resolutely he stuck to the centre lane, reassured from time to time by the name DRAMMEN which appeared on overhead gantries.
To his left was the sea, the deeply penetrating arm of Oslofjord, but then the road veered away and headed inland. Presently the rain stopped, although no sun appeared, and he even began to enjoy himself, having got command of the unfamiliar car. And suddenly he was in Drammen, where he parked and studied the plan on the back of the leaflet.
In spite of the plan he missed the narrow turning to the right and had to carry on for some way before he found an opportunity to reverse the car, but eventually he drove up to the entrance of the tunnel where he stopped to pay the two-kroner charge.
He put the car into gear and moved forward slowly. At first the tunnel was straight, and then it began to climb, turning to the left. There was dim illumination but he switched on his headlights in the dipped position and saw the reflection from the wetness of the rough stone wall. The gradient was regular, as was the radius of the spiral, and by the time he came to a board marked 1 he had got the hang of it. All he had to do was to keep the wheel at a fixed lock to correspond with the radius of the spiral and grind upwards in low gear.
All the same, it was quite an experience – driving upwards through the middle of a mountain. Just after he passed level 3 a car passed him going downwards and momentarily blinded him, but that was all the trouble he had. He took the precaution of steering nearer to the outer curve and closer to the wall.
Soon after passing level 6 he came out of the tunnel into a dazzle of light and on to level ground. To his left there was a large car park, empty of cars, and beyond it was the roof of a large wooden building constructed in chalet style. He parked as close to the building as he could, and got out of the car and locked it.
The chalet was obviously the Spiraltoppen Restaurant, but it was barely in business. He looked through a glass door and saw two women mopping the floor. It was still very early in the morning. He retreated a few steps and saw a giant Spiralen Doll outside the entrance, a leering figure nearly as big as a man.
He looked about him and saw steps leading down towards the edge of a cliff where there was a low stone wall and a coin-in-the-slot telescope. He walked down the path to where he could get a view of the Drammen Valley. The clouds were lifting and the sun broke through and illuminated the river so far below. The air was crystal clear.
Very pretty, he thought sourly; but what the hell am I doing here? What do I expect to find? Drammen Dolly, where are you?
Perhaps the answer lay in the restaurant. He looked at the view for a long time, made nothing of it from his personal point of view, and then returned to the restaurant where the floor-mopping operation had been completed.
He went inside and sat down, looking around hopefully. It was a curiously ad hoc building, all odd angles and discrepancies as though the architect – if there had been an architect – had radically changed his mind during construction. Presently a waitress came and took his order without displaying much interest in him, and later returned with his coffee. She went away without giving him the secret password, so he sat and sipped the coffee gloomily.
After a while he pulled out the leaflet and studied it. He was on the top of Bragernesasen which was ‘the threshold of the unspoilt country of Drammensmarka, an eldorado for hikers in summer, and skiers in winter, who have the benefit of floodlit trails.’ There might be something there, he thought; so he paid for his coffee and left.
Another car had arrived and stood on the other side of the car park. A man sat behind the wheel reading a newspaper. He glanced across incuriously as the restaurant door slammed behind Denison and then returned to his reading. Denison pulled the topcoat closer about him against the suddenly cold wind and walked away from the cliff towards the unspoilt country of Drammensmarka.
It was a wooded area with tall conifers and equally tall deciduous trees with whitish trunks which he assumed to be birches, although he could have been wrong, botany not being his subject. There was a trail leading away from the car park which appeared to be well trodden. Soon the trees closed around him and, on looking back, the restaurant was out of sight.
The trail forked and, tossing a mental coin, he took the route to the right. After walking for a further ten minutes he stopped and again wondered what the hell he was doing. Just because he had found a crude doll in a car he was walking through a forest on a mountain in Norway. It was bloody ridiculous.
It had been the redhead’s casual theory that the doll had been left in the car by a previous hirer. But what previous hirer? The car was obviously new. The doll had been left in a prominent position and there was the note to go with it with the significant reference to the ‘Drammen Dolly’.
Early morning – that’s what the note had said. But how early was early? Come out, come out, wherever you are, my little Drammen Dolly. Wave your magic wand and take me back to Hampstead.
He turned around and trudged back to the fork in the path and this time took the route to the left. The air was fresh and clean after the rain. Drops of water sparkled prismatically on the leaves as the sun struck them and occasionally, as he passed under a tree, a miniature shower would sprinkle him.
And he saw nothing but trees.
He came to another fork in the trail and stopped, wondering what to do. There was a sound behind him as of a twig breaking and he swung around and stared back along the trail but saw nothing as he peered into the dappled forest, shading his eyes from the sun. He turned away but heard another sound to his right and out of the corner of his eye saw something dark moving very fast among the trees.
Behind him he heard footsteps and whirled around to find himself under savage attack. Almost upon him was a big man, a six-footer with broad shoulders, his right hand uplifted and holding what appeared to be a short club.
Denison was thirty-six, which is no age to indulge in serious fisticuffs. He also led a sedentary life which meant that his wind was not good, although it was better than it might have been because he did not smoke. Yet his reflexes were fast enough. What really saved him, though, was that in his time he had been a middling-good middleweight boxer who had won most of his amateur fights by sheer driving aggression.
The last two days had been frustrating for a man of his aggressive tendencies. He had been in a mist with nothing visible to fight and this had gnawed at him. Now that he had something to fight – someone to fight – his instincts took over.
Which is why, instead of jumping back under the attack, unexpectedly he went in low, blocked the descending arm with his own left arm and sank his right fist into his attacker’s belly just below the sternum. The man’s breath came out of him with a gasp and he doubled up on the ground wheezing and making retching noises.
Denison wasted no time, but ran for it back to the car park, aware that his were not the only feet that made those thudding noises on the trail. He did not waste time by looking back but just put his head down and ran. To his left he was aware of a man bounding down the hill dodging trees and doing his best to cut him off – what was worse, he seemed to be succeeding.
Denison put on an extra burst of speed but it was no use – the man leaped on to the trail about fifteen yards ahead. Denison heard his pursuer pounding behind and knew that if he stopped he would be trapped, so he bored on up the trail without slackening pace.
When the man ahead realized that Denison did not intend to stop a look of surprise came over his face and his hand plucked at his waist and he dropped into a crouch. Sun gleamed off the blade of the knife he held in his right hand. Denison ran full tilt at him and made as to break to the man’s left – the safe side – but at the last minute he sold him the dummy and broke away on the knife side.
He nearly got through unscathed because the man bought it. But at the last moment he lashed out with the knife and Denison felt a hot pain across his flank. Yet he had got past and plunged along the trail with undiminished speed, hoping to God he would not trip over an exposed tree root. There is nothing like being chased by a man with a knife to put wings on the feet.
There were three of them. The big man he had laid out with a blow to the solar plexus would not be good for anything for at least two minutes and probably longer. That left the knifer and the other man who had chased him. Behind he heard cries but ahead he saw the roof of the restaurant just coming in sight over the rise.
His wind was going fast and he knew he could not keep up this sprint for long. He burst out into the car park and headed for his car, thankful there was now firm footing. A car door slammed and he risked a glance to the left and saw the man who had been reading the newspaper in the parked car beginning to run towards him.
He fumbled hastily for his car key and thanked God when it slipped smoothly into the lock. He dived behind the wheel and slammed the door with one hand while stabbing the key at the ignition lock with the other – this time he missed and had to fumble again. The man outside hammered on the window and then tugged at the door handle. Denison held the door closed with straining muscles and brought over his other hand quickly to snap down the door catch.
He had dropped the car key on the floor and groped for it. His lungs were hurting and he gasped for breath, and the pain in his side suddenly sharpened, but somewhere at the back of his mind cool logic told him that he was reasonably safe, that no one could get into a locked car before he took off – always provided he could find that damned key.
His fingers brushed against it and he grabbed it, brought it up, and rammed it into the ignition lock. Cool logic evaporated fast when he saw the man stand back and produce an automatic pistol. Denison frantically pumped his foot on the clutch, slammed into first gear, and took off in a tyre-burning squeal even before he had a finger on the wheel. The car weaved drunkenly across the car park then straightened out and dived into the Spiralen tunnel like a rabbit down a hole.
Denison’s last glimpse of daylight in the rear-view mirror showed him the other car beginning to move with two doors open and his pursuers piling in. That would be the ferret after the rabbit.
It took him about ten seconds, after he hit the curve, to know he was going too fast. The gradient was one in ten and the curve radius only a hundred and fifteen feet, turning away to the right so that he was on the inside. His speed was such that centrifugal force tended to throw the car sideways over the centre line, and if anything was coming up he would surely hit it.
He could be compared to a man on a bobsled going down the Cresta Run – with some important differences. The Cresta Run is designed so that the walls can be climbed; here the walls were of jagged, untrimmed rock and one touch at speed would surely wreck the car. The Cresta Run does not have two-way traffic with a continuous blind corner a mile long, and the competitors are not pursued by men with guns – if they were, more records might be broken.
So Denison reluctantly eased his foot on the accelerator and risked a glance in his mirror. The driver of the car behind was more foolhardy than he and was not worrying about up-traffic. He was barrelling down the centre line and catching up fast. Denison fed more fuel to the engine, twisted the wheel and wondered if he could sustain a sideways drift a mile long.
The walls of the tunnel were a blur and the lights flicked by and he caught sight of an illuminated number 5. Four more circuits to go before the bottom. The car jolted and pitched suddenly and he fought the wheel which had taken on a life of its own. It did it again and he heard a nasty sound from the rear. He was being rammed. There was another sound as sheet metal ripped and the car slewed across the whole width of the tunnel.
He heard – and felt – the crunch as the rear off-side of the car slammed into the opposite wall, but Denison was not particularly worried about the property of the Hertz Company at that moment because he saw the dipped headlights of a vehicle coming up the Spiralen towards him. He juggled madly with wheel, clutch and accelerator and shot off to the other side of the tunnel again, scraping across the front of the tour bus that was coming up. There was a brief vignette of the driver of the bus, his mouth open and his eyes staring, and then he was gone.
The front fender scraped along the nearside tunnel wall in a shower of sparks and Denison wrenched the wheel over and nearly clipped the rear of the bus as it went by. He wobbled crazily from side to side of the tunnel for about a hundred and fifty yards before he had proper control, and it was only by the grace of God that the bus had not been the first in a procession of vehicles.
Level 2 passed in a flash and a flicker of light in Denison’s eyes, reflected from the rear-view mirror, told him that the car behind had also avoided the bus and was catching up again. He increased speed again and the tyres protested noisily with a rending squeal; the whole of the Spiralen would be filled with the stench of burning rubber.
Level 1. A brightness ahead warned of the approach of another vehicle and Denison tensed his muscles, but the tunnel straightened and he saw it was the daylight of the exit. He rammed down his foot and the car surged forward and came out of the tunnel like a shell from a gun. The fee-collector threw up his arms and jumped aside as the car shot past him. Denison screwed up his eyes against the sudden bright glare of sunlight and hurtled down the hill towards the main street of Drammen at top speed.
At the bottom of the hill he jammed on his brakes and wrenched the wheel sideways. The car heeled violently as it turned the corner and the tyres screamed again, leaving black rubber on the road. Then he literally stood on the brake pedal, rising in his seat, to avoid ploughing into a file of the good people of Drammen crossing the street at a traffic light. The car’s nose sank and the rear came up as it juddered to a halt, just grazing the thigh of a policeman who stood in the middle of the road with his back to Denison.
The policeman turned, his face expressionless. Denison sagged back into his seat and twisted his head to look back along the road. He saw the pursuing car break the other way and head down the road at high speed out of Drammen.
The policeman knocked on the car window and Denison wound it down to be met by a blast of hot Norwegian. He shook his head, and said loudly, ‘I have no Norwegian. Do you speak English?’
The policeman halted in mid-spate with his mouth open. He shut it firmly, took a deep breath, and said, ‘What you think you do?’
Denison pointed back. ‘It was those damn fools. I might have been killed.’
The policeman stood back and did a slow circumnavigation of the car, inspecting it carefully. Then he tapped on the window of the passenger side and Denison opened the door. The policeman got in. ‘Drive!’ he said.
When Denison pulled up outside the building marked POLISI and switched off the engine the policeman firmly took the car key from him and waved towards the door of the building. ‘Inside!’
It was a long wait for Denison. He sat in a bare room under the cool eye of a Norwegian policeman, junior grade, and meditated on his story. If he told the truth then the question would arise: Who would want to attack an Englishman called thing Meyrick? That would naturally lead to: Who is this Meyrick? Denison did not think he could survive long under questions like that. It would all come out and the consensus of opinion would be that they had a right nut-case on their hands, and probably homicidal at that. They would have to be told someother than the strict truth.
He waited an hour and then the telephone rang. The young policeman answered briefly, put down the telephone, and said to Denison, ‘Come!’
He was taken to an office where a senior policeman sat behind a desk. He picked up a pen and levelled it at a chair. ‘Sit!’
Denison sat, wondering if the English conversation of the Norwegian police was limited to one word at a time. The officer poised his pen above a printed form. ‘Name?’
‘Meyrick,’ said Denison. ‘Harold Feltham Meyrick.’
‘Nationality?’
‘British.’
The officer extended his hand, palm upwards. ‘Passport.’ It was not a question.
Denison took out his passport and put it on the outstretched palm. The officer flicked through the pages, then put it down and stared at Denison with eyes like chips of granite. ‘You drove through the streets of Drammen at an estimated speed of 140 kilometres an hour. I don’t have to tell you that is in excess of the speed limit. You drove through the Spiralen at an unknown speed – certainly less than 140 kilometres otherwise we would have the distasteful task of scraping you off the walls. What is your explanation?’
Denison now knew what a Norwegian policeman sounded like in an extended speech in the English language, and he did not particularly relish it. The man’s tone was scathing. He said, ‘There was a car behind me. The driver was playing silly buggers.’ The officer raised his eyebrows, and Denison said, ‘I think they were teenage hooligans out to throw a scare into someone – you know how they are. They succeeded with me. They rammed me a couple of times and I had to go faster. It all led on from that.’
He stopped and the officer stared at him with hard, grey eyes but said nothing. Denison let the silence lengthen, then said slowly and clearly, ‘I would like to get in touch with the British Embassy immediately.’
The officer lowered his eyes and consulted a typewritten form. ‘The condition of the rear of your car is consistent with your story. There was another car. It has been found abandoned. The condition of the front of that car is also consistent with your story. The car we found had been stolen last night in Oslo.’ He looked up. ‘Do you want to make any changes in your statement?’
‘No,’ said Denison.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure.’
The officer stood up, the passport in his hand. ‘Wait here.’ He walked out.
Denison waited another hour before the officer came back. He said, ‘An official from your Embassy is coming to be present while you prepare your written statement.’
‘I see,’ said Denison. ‘What about my passport?’
‘That will be handed to the Embassy official. Your car we will keep here for spectrographic tests of the paintwork. If there has been transfer of paint from one car to another it will tend to support your statement. In any event, the car cannot be driven in its present condition; both indicator lights are smashed – you would be breaking the law.’
Denison nodded. ‘How long before the Embassy man gets here?’
‘I cannot say. You may wait here.’ The officer went away.
Denison waited for two hours. On complaining of hunger, food and coffee were brought to him on a tray. Otherwise he was left alone except for the doctor who came in to dress an abrasion on the left side of his forehead. He dimly remembered being struck by a tree branch on the chase along the trail, but did not correct the doctor who assumed it had occurred in the Spiralen. What with one thing and another, the left side of Meyrick’s face was taking quite a beating; any photographs had better be of the right profile.
He said nothing about the wound in his side. While alone in the office he had checked it quickly. That knife must have been razor sharp; it had sliced through his topcoat, his jacket, the sweater and into his side, fortunately not deeply. The white sweater was red with blood but the wound, which appeared clean, had stopped bleeding although it hurt if he moved suddenly. He left it alone.
At last someone came – a dapper young man with a fresh face who advanced on Denison with an outstretched hand. ‘Dr Meyrick – I’m George McCready, I’ve come to help you get out of this spot of trouble.’
Behind McCready came the police officer, who drew up another chair and they got down to the business of the written statement. The officer wanted it amplified much more than in Denison’s bald, verbal statement so he obligingly told all that had happened from the moment he had entered the Spiralen tunnel on top of Bragernesasen. He had no need to lie about anything. His written statement was taken away and typed up in quadruplicate and he signed all four copies, McCready countersigning as witness.
McCready cocked his eye at the officer. ‘I think that’s all.’
The officer nodded. ‘That’s all – for the moment. Dr Meyrick may be required at another time. I trust he will be available.’
‘Of course,’ said McCready easily. He turned to Denison. ‘Let’s get you back to the hotel. You must be tired.’
They went out to McCready’s car. As McCready drove out of Drammen Denison was preoccupied with a problem. How did McCready know to address him as ‘Doctor’? The designation on his passport was just plain ‘Mister’. He stirred and said, ‘If we’re going to the hotel I’d like to have my passport. I don’t like to be separated from it.’
‘You’re not going to the hotel,’ said McCready. ‘That was for the benefit of the copper. I’m taking you to the Embassy. Carey flew in from London this morning and he wants to see you.’ He laughed shortly. ‘How he wants to see you.’
Denison felt the water deepening. ‘Carey,’ he said in a neutral tone, hoping to stimulate conversation along those lines. McCready had dropped Carey’s name casually as though Meyrick was supposed to know him. Who the devil was Carey?
McCready did not bite. ‘That explanation of yours wasn’t quite candid, was it?’ He waited for a reaction but Denison kept his mouth shut. ‘There’s a witness – a waitress from the Spiraltoppen – who said something about a fight up there. It seems there was a man with a gun. The police are properly suspicious.’
When Denison would not be drawn McCready glanced sideways at him, and laughed. ‘Never mind, you did the right thing under the circumstances. Never talk about guns to a copper – it makes them nervous. Mind you, the circumstances should never have arisen. Carey’s bloody wild about that.’ He sighed. ‘I can’t say that I blame him.’
It was gibberish to Denison and he judged that the less he said the better. He leaned back, favouring his injured side, and said, ‘I’m tired.’
‘Yes,’ said McCready. ‘I suppose you must be.’
FIVE (#ulink_6e5cb339-55a2-5791-8333-c56eac9704a9)
Denison was kept kicking his heels in an ante-room in the Embassy while McCready went off, presumably to report. After fifteen minutes he came back. ‘This way, Dr Meyrick.’
Denison followed him along a corridor until McCready stopped and politely held open a door for him. ‘You’ve already met Mr Carey, of course.’
The man sitting behind the desk could only be described as square. He was a big, chunky man with a square, head topped with close-cut grizzled grey hair. He was broad-chested and squared off at the shoulders, and his hands were big with blunt fingers. ‘Come in, Dr Meyrick.’ He nodded at McCready. ‘All right, George; be about your business.’
McCready closed the door. ‘Sit down, Doctor,’ said Carey. It was an invitation, not a command. Denison sat in the chair on the other side of the desk and waited for a long time while Carey inspected him with an inscrutable face.
After a long time Carey sighed. ‘Dr Meyrick, you were asked not to stray too far from your hotel and to keep strictly to central Oslo. If you wanted to go farther afield you were asked to let us know so that we could make the necessary arrangements. You see, our manpower isn’t infinite.’
His voice rose. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t have been asked; maybe you should have been told.’ He seemed to hold himself in with an effort, and lowered his voice again. ‘So I fly in this morning to hear that you’re missing, and then I’m told that you isolated yourself on a mountain top – for what reason only you know.’
He raised his hand to intercept interruption. Denison did not mind; he was not going to say anything, anyway.
‘All right,’ said Carey. ‘I know the story you told the local coppers. It was a good improvisation and maybe they’ll buy it and maybe they won’t.’ He put his hands flat on the desk. ‘Now what really happened?’
‘I was up there walking through the woods,’ said Denison, ‘when suddenly a man attacked me.’
‘Description?’
‘Tall. Broad. Not unlike you in build, but younger. He had black hair. His nose was broken. He had something in his hand – he was going to hit me with it. Some sort of cosh, I suppose.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I laid him out,’ said Denison.
‘You laid him out,’ said Carey in a flat voice. There was disbelief in his eye.
‘I laid him out,’ said Denison evenly. He paused. ‘I was a useful boxer at one time.’
Carey frowned and drummed his fingers. ‘Then what happened?’
‘Another man was coming at me from behind, so I ran for it.’
‘Wise man – some of the time, anyway. And…?’
‘Another man intercepted me from the front.’
‘Describe him.’
‘Shortish – about five foot seven – with a rat-face and a long nose. Dressed in jeans and a blue jersey. He had a knife.’
‘He had a knife, did he?’ said Carey. ‘So what did you do about that?’
‘Well, the other chap was coming up behind fast – I didn’t have much time to think – so I charged the joker with the knife and sold him the dummy at the last moment’
‘You what?’
‘I sold him the dummy. It’s a rugby expression meaning …’
‘I know what it means,’ snapped Carey. ‘I suppose you were a useful rugby player at one time, too.’
‘That’s right,’ said Denison.
Carey bent his head and put his hand to his brow so that his face was hidden. He seemed to be suppressing some strong emotion. ‘What happened next?’ he asked in a muffled voice.
‘By that time I’d got back to the car park – and there was another man.’
‘Another man,’ said Carey tiredly. ‘Description.’
‘Not much. I think he wore a grey suit He had a gun.’
‘Escalating on you, weren’t they?’ said Carey. His voice was savage. ‘So what did you do then?’
‘I was in the car by the time I saw the gun and I got out of there fast and …’
‘And did a Steve McQueen through the Spiralen, roared through Drammen like an express train and butted a copper in the arse.’
‘Yes,’ said Denison simply. ‘That about wraps it up.’
‘I should think it does,’ said Carey. He was silent for a while, then he said, ‘Regardless of the improbability of all this, I’d still like to know why you went to Drammen in the first place, and why you took the trouble to shake off any followers before leaving Oslo.’
‘Shake off followers,’ said Denison blankly. ‘I didn’t know I was being followed.’
‘You know now. It was for your own protection. But my man says he’s never seen such an expert job of shaking a tail in his life. You were up to all the tricks. You nearly succeeded twice, and you did succeed the third time.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Denison. ‘I lost my way a couple of times, that’s all.’
Carey took a deep breath and looked at the ceiling. ‘You lost your way,’ he breathed. His voice became deep and solemn. ‘Dr Meyrick: can you tell me why you lost your way when you know this area better than your own county of Buckinghamshire? You showed no signs of losing your way when you went to Drammen last week.’
Denison took the plunge. ‘Perhaps it’s because I’m not Dr Meyrick.’
Carey whispered, ‘What did you say?’
SIX (#ulink_0453cc10-1005-5bd8-b4e4-37986241c984)
Denison told all of it.
When he had finished Carey’s expression was a mixture of perturbation and harassment. He heard everything Denison had to say but made no comment; instead, he lifted the telephone, dialled a number, and said, ‘George? Ask Ian to come in here for a minute.’
He came from behind the desk and patted Denison on the shoulder. ‘I hope you don’t mind waiting for a few minutes.’ He strode away to intercept the man who had just come in and they held a whispered colloquy before Carey left the room.
He closed the door on the other side and stood for a moment in thought, then he shook his head irritably and went into McCready’s office. McCready looked up, saw Carey’s expression, and said, ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Our boy has rolled clean off his tiny little rocker,’ snapped Carey. ‘That’s what’s the matter. He started off by telling cock-and-bull stories, but then it got worse – much worse.’
‘What did he say?’
Carey told him – in gruesome detail.
Ten minutes later he said, ‘Discounting a lot of balls about mysterious attackers, something happened up there on top of the Spiralen which knocked Meyrick off his perch.’ He rubbed his forehead. ‘When they wish these eggheads on us you’d think they’d test them for mental stability. What we need now is an alienist.’
McCready suppressed a smile. ‘Isn’t that rather an old-fashioned term?’
Carey glared at him. ‘Old-fashioned and accurate.’ He stabbed his finger at the office wall. ‘That … that thing in there isn’t human any more. I tell you, my flesh crawled when I heard what he was saying.’
‘There isn’t a chance that he’s right, is there?’ asked McCready diffidently.
‘No chance at all. I was facing Meyrick at the original briefing in London for two bloody days until I got to hate the sight of his fat face. It’s Meyrick, all right.’
‘There is one point that puzzles me,’ said McCready. ‘When I was with him at the police station in Drammen he didn’t speak a word of Norwegian, and yet I understand he knows the language.’
‘He speaks it fluently,’ said Carey.
‘And yet I’m told that his first words were to the effect that he spoke no Norwegian.’
‘For God’s sake!’ said Carey. ‘You know the man’s history. He was born in Finland and lived there until he was seventeen, when he came to live here in Oslo. When he was twenty-four he moved to England where he’s been ever since. That’s twenty-two years. He didn’t see a rugby ball until he arrived in England, and I’ve studied his dossier and know for a fact that he never boxed in his life.’
‘Then it all fits in with his story that he’s not Meyrick.’ McCready paused for thought. ‘There was a witness at Spiraltoppen who said she saw a gun.’
‘A hysterical waitress,’ sneered Carey. ‘Wait a minute – did you tell Meyrick about that?’
‘I did mention it.’
‘It fits,’ said Carey. ‘You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if the story Meyrick gave to the police wasn’t the absolute truth. He was razzled by a few kids out for a joyride in a stolen car and the experience knocked him off his spindle.’
‘And the gun?’
‘You told him about the gun. He seized that and wove it into his fairy tale, and added a few other trimmings such as the knife and the cosh. I think that in the Spiralen he felt so bloody helpless that he’s invented this story to retain what he thinks is his superiority. At the briefing I assessed him as an arrogant bastard, utterly convinced of his superiority to us lesser mortals. But he wasn’t very superior in the Spiralen, was he?’
‘Interesting theory,’ said McCready. ‘You’d make a good alienist – except for one thing. You lack empathy.’
‘I can’t stand the man,’ said Carey bluntly. ‘He’s an overweening, overbearing, supercilious son-of-a-bitch who thinks the sun shines out of his arse. Mr Know-it-all in person and too bloody toplofty by half.’ He shrugged. ‘But I can’t pick and choose the people I work with. It’s not in my contract.’
‘What did you say he called himself?’
‘Giles Denison from Hampstead. Hampstead, for Christ’s sake!’
‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ said McCready. He left the room.
Carey loosened his tie with a jerk and sat biting his thumbnail. He looked up as McCready came back holding a book. ‘What have you got there?’
‘London telephone directory.’
‘Give me that,’ said Carey, and grabbed it. ‘Let’s see – Dennis, Dennis, Dennis … Dennison. There’s a George and two plain Gs – neither in Hampstead.’ He sat back, looking pleased.
McCready took the book and flipped the pages. After a minute he said, ‘Denison, Giles … Hampstead. He spells it with one “n”.’
‘Oh, Christ!’ said Carey, looking stricken. He recovered. ‘Doesn’t mean a thing. He picked the name of someone he knows. His daughter’s boy-friend, perhaps.’
‘Perhaps,’ said McCready non-committally.
Carey drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘I’ll stake my life that this is Meyrick; anything else would be too ridiculous.’ His fingers were suddenly stilled. ‘Mrs Hansen,’ he said. ‘She’s been closer to him than anybody. Did she have anything to say?’
‘She reported last night that she’d met him. He’d broken a date with her in the morning and excused it by pleading illness. Said he’d been in bed all morning.’
‘Had he?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did she notice anything about him – anything odd or unusual?’
‘Only that he had a cold and that he’d stopped smoking. He said cigarettes tasted like straw.’
Carey, a pipe-smoker, grunted. ‘They taste like straw to me without a cold. But he recognised her.’
‘They had a drink and a conversation – about morals and religion, she said.’
‘That does it,’ said Carey. ‘Meyrick is ready to pontificate about anything at the drop of a hat, whether he knows anything about it or not.’ He rubbed his chin and said grudgingly, ‘Trouble is, he usually talks sense – he has a good brain. No, this is Meyrick, and Meyrick is as flabby as a bladder of lard – that’s why we have to coddle him on this operation. Do you really think that Meyrick could stand up against four men with guns and knives and coshes? The man could hardly break the skin on the top of a custard. He’s gone out of his tiny, scientific mind and his tale of improbable violence is just to save his precious superiority, as I said before.’
‘And what about the operation?’
‘As far as Meyrick is concerned the operation is definitely off,’ said Carey decisively. ‘And, right now, I don’t see how it can be done without him. I’ll cable London to that effect as soon as I’ve had another talk with him.’ He paused. ‘You’d better come along, George. I’m going to need a witness on this one or else London will have me certified.’
They left the office and walked along the corridor. Outside the room where Meyrick was held Carey put his hand on McCready’s arm. ‘Hold yourself in, George. This might be rough.’
They found Meyrick still sitting at the desk in brooding silence, ignoring the man he knew only as Ian who sat opposite. Ian looked up at Carey and shrugged eloquently.
Carey stepped forward. ‘Dr Meyrick, I’m sorry to …’
‘My name is Denison. I told you that.’ His voice was cold.
Carey softened his tone. ‘All right, Mr Denison; if you prefer it that way. I really think you ought to see a doctor. I’m arranging for it.’
‘And about time,’ said Denison. ‘This is hurting like hell.’
‘What is?’
Denison was pulling his sweater from his trousers. ‘This bloody knife wound. Look at it.’
Carey and McCready bent to look at the quarter-inch deep slash along Denison’s side. It would, Carey estimated, take sixteen stitches to sew it up.
Their heads came up together and they looked at each other with a wild surmise.
SEVEN (#ulink_058812ac-6f6d-54e7-b740-763129c488b3)
Carey paced restlessly up and down McCready’s office. His tie was awry and his hair would have been tousled had it not been so close-cropped because he kept running his hand through it. ‘I still don’t believe it,’ he said. ‘It’s too bloody incredible.’
He swung on McCready. ‘George, supposing you went to bed tonight, here in Oslo, and woke up tomorrow, say, in a New York hotel, wearing someone else’s face. What would be your reaction?’
‘I think I’d go crazy,’ said McCready soberly. He smiled slightly. ‘If I woke up with your face I would go crazy.’
Carey ignored the wisecrack. ‘But Denison didn’t go crazy,’ he said meditatively. ‘All things considered, he kept his cool remarkably well.’
‘If he is Denison,’ remarked McCready. ‘He could be Meyrick and quite insane.’
Carey exploded into a rage. ‘For God’s sake! All along you’ve been arguing that he’s Denison; now you turn around and say he could be Meyrick.’
McCready eyed him coolly. ‘The role of devil’s advocate suits me, don’t you think?’ He tapped the desk. ‘Either way, the operation is shot to hell.’
Carey sat down heavily. ‘You’re right, of course. But if this is a man called Denison then there are a lot of questions to be answered. But first, what the devil do we do with him?’
‘We can’t keep him here,’ said McCready. ‘For the same reason we didn’t keep Meyrick here. The Embassy is like a fishbowl.’
Carey cocked his head. ‘He’s been here for over two hours. That’s about normal for a citizen being hauled over the coals for a serious driving offence. You suggest we send him back to the hotel?’
‘Under surveillance.’ McCready smiled. ‘He says he has a date with a redhead for dinner.’
‘Mrs Hansen,’ said Carey. ‘Does he know about her?’
‘No.’
‘Keep it that way. She’s to stick close to him. Give her a briefing and ask her to guard him from interference. He could run into some odd situations. And talk to him like a Dutch uncle. Put the fear of God into him so that he stays in the hotel. I don’t want him wandering around loose.’
Carey drew a sheet of paper towards him and scribbled on it. ‘The next thing we want are doctors – tame ones who will ask the questions we want asked and no others. A plastic surgeon and –’ he smiled at McCready bleakly – ‘and an alienist. The problem must be decided one way or the other.’
‘We can’t wait until they arrive,’ said McCready.
‘Agreed,’ said Carey. ‘We’ll work on the assumption that a substitution has been made – that this man is Denison. We know when the substitution was made – in the early hours of yesterday morning. Denison was brought in – how?’
‘On a stretcher – he must have been unconscious.’
‘Right!’ said Carey. ‘A hospital patient in transit under the supervision of a trained nurse and probably a doctor. And they’d have taken a room on the same floor as Meyrick. The switch was made and Meyrick taken out yesterday morning – probably in an ambulance at the back entrance of the hotel by arrangement with the management. Hotels don’t like stretchers being paraded through the front lobby.’
‘I’ll get on to it,’ said McCready. ‘It might be an idea to check on all the people who booked in on the previous day, regardless of the floor they stayed on. I don’t think this was a two man job.’
‘I don’t, either. And you check the comings and goings for the past week – somebody must have been watching Meyrick for a long time.’
‘That’s a hell of a big job,’ objected McCready. ‘Do we get the co-operation of the Norwegians?’
Carey pondered. ‘At this time – no. We keep it under wraps.’
McCready’s face took on a sad look at the thought of all the legwork he was going to have to do. Carey tilted his chair back. ‘And then there’s the other end to be checked – the London end. Why Giles Denison of Hampstead?’ His chair came down with a thump. ‘Hasn’t it struck you that Denison has been very unforthcoming?’
McCready shrugged. ‘I haven’t talked to him all that much.’
‘Well, look,’ said Carey. ‘Here we have this man in this bloody odd situation in which he finds himself. After recovering from the first shock, he not only manages to deceive Mrs Hansen as to his real identity but he has the wit to ring up Meyrick’s home. But why only Meyrick? Why didn’t he check back on himself?’
‘How do you mean?’
Carey sighed. ‘There’s a man called Giles Denison missing from Hampstead. Surely he’d be missed by someone? Even if Denison is an unmarried orphan he must have friends – a job. Why didn’t he ring back to reassure people that he was all right and still alive and now living it up in Oslo?’
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ admitted McCready. ‘That’s a pointer to his being Meyrick, after all. Suffering from delusions but unable to flesh them out properly.’
Carey gave a depressed nod. ‘All I’ve had from him is that he’s Giles Denison from Hampstead – nothing more.’
‘Why not put it to him now?’ suggested McCready.
Carey thought about it and shook his head. ‘No, I’ll leave that to the psychiatrist. If this is really Meyrick, the wrong sort of questions could push him over the edge entirely.’ He pulled the note pad towards him again. ‘We’ll have someone check on Denison in Hampstead and find out the score.’ He ripped off the sheet. ‘Let’s get cracking. I want those cables sent to London immediately – top priority and coded. I want those quacks here as fast as possible.’
EIGHT (#ulink_f57eb46e-a78e-5cd1-ade7-137ab2a313fd)
Giles Denison stirred his coffee and smiled across the table at Diana Hansen. His smile was steady, which was remarkable because a thought had suddenly struck him like a bolt of lightning and left him with a churning stomach. Was the delectable Diana Hansen who faced him Meyrick’s mistress?
The very thought put him into a dilemma. Should he make a pass or not? Whatever he did – or did not – do, he had a fifty per cent chance of being wrong. The uncertainty of it spoiled his evening which had so far been relaxing and pleasant.
He had been driven back to the hotel in an Embassy car after dire warnings from George McCready of what would happen to him if he did not obey instructions. ‘You’ll have realized by now that you’ve dropped right into the middle of something awkward,’ said McCready. ‘We’re doing our best to sort it out but, for the next couple of days, you’d do well to stay in the hotel.’ He drove it home by asking pointedly, ‘How’s your side feeling now?’
‘Better,’ said Denison. ‘But I could have done with a doctor.’ He had been strapped up by McCready, who had produced a first-aid box and displayed a competence which suggested he was no stranger to knife wounds.
‘You’ll get a doctor,’ assured McCready. ‘Tomorrow.’
‘I have a dinner date,’ said Denison. ‘With that redhead I told you about. What should I do about that? If she goes on like she did yesterday I’m sure to put my foot in it.’
‘I don’t see why you should,’ said McCready judiciously.
‘For God’s sake! I don’t even know her name.’
McCready patted him on the shoulder, and said soothingly, ‘You’ll be all right.’
Denison was plaintive. ‘It’s all very well you wanting me to go on being Meyrick but surely you can tell me something. Who is Meyrick, for instance?’
‘It will all be explained tomorrow,’ said McCready, hoping that he was right. ‘In the meantime, go back to the hotel like a good chap, and don’t leave it until I call for you. Just have a quiet dinner with … with your redhead and then go to bed.’
Denison had a last try. ‘Are you in Intelligence or something? A spy?’
But to that McCready made no answer.
So Denison was delivered to the hotel and he had not been in the room more than ten minutes when the telephone rang. He regarded it warily and let it ring several times before he put out his hand as though about to pick up a snake. ‘Yes?’ he said uncommunicatively.
‘Diana here.’
‘Who?’ he asked cautiously.
‘Diana Hansen, who else? We have a dinner date, remember? How are you?’
Again he caught the faint hint of America behind the English voice. ‘Better,’ he said, thinking it was convenient of her to announce her name.
‘That’s good,’ she said warmly. ‘Are you fit enough for dinner?’
‘I think so.’
‘Mmm,’ she murmured doubtfully. ‘But I still don’t think you should go out; there’s quite a cold wind. What about dinner in the hotel restaurant?’
Even more convenient; he had just been about to suggest that himself. In a more confident voice he said, ‘That’ll be fine.’
‘Meet you in the bar at half past seven,’ she said.
‘All right.’
She rang off and he put down the telephone slowly. He hoped that McCready was right; that he could manage a sustained conversation with this woman in the guise of Meyrick. He sat in the armchair and winced as pain stabbed in his side. He held his breath until the pain eased and then relaxed and looked at his watch. Half past five. He had two hours before meeting the Hansen woman.
What a mess! What a stinking mess! Lost behind another man’s face, he had apparently dropped into the middle of an intrigue which involved the British government. That man, Carey, had been damned patronizing about what had happened on top of the Spiralen and had not bothered to hide his disbelief. It had been that, more than anything else, that had driven Denison into disclosing who he was. It had certainly taken the smile off Carey’s face.
But who was Carey? To begin with, he was obviously McCready’s boss – but that did not get him very far because who was McCready? A tight little group in the British Embassy in Oslo dedicated to what? Trade relations? That did not sound likely.
Carey had made it clear that he had warned Meyrick not to move far from the hotel. Judging by what had happened on the Spiralen the warning was justified. But who the hell was Meyrick that he was so important? The man with the title of Doctor or perhaps Professor, and who was described on his passport as a civil servant.
Denison’s head began to ache again. Christ! he thought; I’ll be bloody glad to get back to Hampstead, back to my job and the people I …
The thought tailed off to a deadly emptiness and he felt his stomach lurch. A despairing wail rose in his mind – God help me! he cried silently as he realized his mind was a blank, that he did not know what his job was, that he could not put a name to a single friend or acquaintance, and that all he knew of himself was that he was Giles Denison and that he came from Hampstead.
Bile rose in his throat. He struggled to his feet and staggered to the bathroom where he was violently sick. Again there was that insistent beat in his mind: I AM GILES DENISON. But there was nothing more – no link with a past life.
He left the bathroom and lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. You must remember! he commanded himself. You must! But there was nothing – just Giles Denison of Hampstead and a vague mind picture of a house in a half-forgotten memory.
Think!
The scar on his shin – he remembered that. He saw himself on the small child-size bicycle going down a hill too fast, and the inevitable tumble at the bottom – then the quick tears and the comfort of his mother. I remember that, he told himself in triumph.
What else? Beth – he remembered Beth who had been his wife, but she had died. How many years ago was it? Three years. And then there was the whisky, too much whisky. He remembered the whisky.
Denison lay on the bed and fought to extract memories from a suddenly recalcitrant mind. There was a slick sheen of sweat on his brow and his fists were clenched, the nails digging into his palms.
Something else he had remembered before. He had come back from Edinburgh on June 17, but what had he been doing there? Working, of course, but what was his work? Try as he might he could not penetrate the blank haze which cloaked his mind.
On June 18 he had played golf in the afternoon. With whom? Of course it was possible for a man to play a round of golf alone, and also to go to the cinema alone and to dine in Soho alone, but it was hardly likely that he would forget everything else. Where had he played golf? Which cinema did he go to? Which restaurant in Soho?
A blazing thought struck him, an illumination of the mind so clear that he knew certainly it was the truth. He cried aloud, ‘But I’ve never played golf in my life!’
There was a whirling spiral of darkness in his mind and, mercifully, he slept.
NINE (#ulink_c2157b90-a023-5133-b1c5-a8ba4eca44fd)
Denison walked into the bar at a quarter to eight and saw the woman who called herself Diana Hansen sitting at a table. He walked over and said, ‘Sorry I’m late.’
She smiled and said lightly, ‘I was beginning to think I was being stood up again.’
He sat down. ‘I fell asleep.’
‘You look pale. Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine.’ There was a vague memory at the back of his mind which disturbed him; something had happened just before he had fallen asleep. He was reluctant to probe into it because he caught a hint of terror and madness which frightened him. He shivered.
‘Cold?’ Her voice was sympathetic.
‘Nothing that a stiff drink won’t cure.’ He beckoned to a passing waiter, and raised his eyebrows at her.
‘A dry Martini, please.’
He turned to the hovering waiter. ‘A dry martini and … do you have a scotch malt?’ Normally he bought the cheapest blend he could buy in the cut-price supermarkets but with Meyrick’s finances behind him he could afford the best.
‘Yes, sir. Glenfiddich?’
‘That will do fine. Thank you.’
Diana Hansen said, ‘Food may be better than drink. Have you eaten today?’
‘Not much.’ Just the meal in the police station at Drammen, taken for fuel rather than pleasure.
‘You men!’ she said with scorn. ‘No better than children when left on your own. You’ll feel better after dinner.’
He leaned back in his chair. ‘Let’s see – how long have we known each other, Diana?’
She smiled. ‘Counting the days, Harry? Nearly three weeks.’
So he had met her in Oslo – or, rather, Meyrick had. ‘I was just trying to find out how long it takes a woman to become maternal. Less than three weeks, I see.’
‘Is that the scientific mind at work?’
‘One aspect of it.’ Could that mean anything? Was Dr Meyrick a scientist – a government boffin?
She looked across the room and a shadow seemed to darken her face momentarily. ‘There’s Jack Kidder and his wife.’
Denison paused before he turned round. ‘Oh! Where?’
‘Just coming in.’ She put out her hand and covered his. ‘Do you want to be bothered by them, darling? He’s a bit of a bore, really.’
Denison looked at the tall, fleshy man who was escorting a petite woman. Jack Kidder was the name Diana Hansen had mentioned when he had bumped into her outside the bookshop. If she did not want to mix with the Kidders it was all right with him; he had enough to cope with already. He said, ‘You’re right. I don’t think I could cope with a bore tonight.’
She laughed. ‘Thanks for the compliment – hidden though it was. I’ll put him off tactfully if he comes across.’ She sighed theatrically. ‘But if he says that damned slogan of his again I’ll scream.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You must have heard it. It’s when he pulls off one of his dreadful jokes.’ She burlesqued an American accent. ‘“You know me – Kidder by name and kidder by nature.”’
‘Jack was always the life and soul of the party,’ said Denison drily.
‘I don’t know how Lucy puts up with him,’ said Diana. ‘If you can talk about a hen-pecked husband, can you refer to a cock-pecked wife?’
Denison grinned. ‘It sounds rude.’ Diana Hansen was making things easy for him. She had just given him a thumbnail sketch of the Kidders, including names and temperaments. It could not have been done better if done deliberately.
The waiter put the drinks on the table and Denison found he had a scotch on the rocks, a desecration of good malt. He did not feel like making a fuss about it so he raised his glass. ‘Skal!’ He sipped the whisky and reflected that this was the first real drink he had had since his transformation into Meyrick.
The familiar taste bit at his tongue and somehow released a wave of memories which washed through him tumultuously, tantalizingly close to the surface of his mind. And with the memories, unrealized though they were, came the fear and the terror which set his heart thumping in his chest. Hastily he set down the glass, knowing he was close to panic.
Diana Hansen looked at his shaking fingers. ‘What’s the matter, Harry?’
Denison covered up. ‘I don’t think a drink is a good idea, after all. I’ve just remembered I’m stuffed full of pills.’ He managed a smile. ‘If you shook me I’d rattle. I don’t think they’d mix with alcohol.’
She put down her glass. Then let’s have dinner before the Kidders catch up with us.’ She stood up and took her handbag from the table. Denison arose and they moved towards the entrance, but then she turned her head and murmured, Too late, I’m afraid.’
Kidder was also standing up, his big body blocking the way. ‘Hey, Lucy, look who’s here. It’s Diana and Harry.’
‘Hallo, Jack,’ said Denison. ‘Had a good day?’
‘We’ve been up to Holmenkollen; you know – the big ski-jump you can see from all over the city. It’s quite a thing when you get up to it close. Can you imagine, it’s only used once a year?’
‘I can’t imagine,’ said Denison blandly.
Lucy Kidder said, ‘And we went to the Henie-Onstad Art Centre, too.’
‘Yeah, modern art,’ said Kidder disparagingly. ‘Harry, can you make any sense out of Jackson Pollock?’
‘Not much,’ said Denison.
Kidder turned on his wife. ‘Anyway, why the hell do we have to come to Norway to see an American artist?’
‘But he’s internationally famous, Jack. Aren’t you proud of that?’
‘I guess so,’ he said gloomily. ‘But the locals aren’t much better. Take the guy with the name like a breakfast food.’ Everyone looked at Kidder with blank faces and he snapped his fingers impatiently. ‘You know who I mean – the local Scowegian we saw yesterday.’
Lucy Kidder sighed. ‘Edvard Munch,’ she said resignedly.
‘That’s the guy. Too gloomy for me even if you can see the people in his pictures,’ said Kidder.
Diana cut in quickly. ‘Harry’s not been feeling too well lately. I’m taking him in to an early dinner and sending him right to bed.’
‘Gee, I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Kidder. He sounded sincere.
‘There’s a lot of this two-day flu about,’ said his wife. ‘And it can be nasty while it lasts. You look after yourself – hear?’
‘I don’t think it’s too serious,’ said Denison.
‘But we’d better go in to dinner,’ said Diana. ‘Harry hasn’t eaten a thing all day.’
‘Sure,’ said Kidder, standing aside. ‘I hope you feel better real soon. You look after him, Diana.’
Over dinner they talked in generalities, much to Denison’s relief, and he was able to hold his own without much effort. There was not a single thing to trouble him until the coffee was served and that startling thought about the possible relationship between Diana and Meyrick came into his head. He looked at her speculatively and wondered what to do. For all he knew, Meyrick was an old ram.
He held the smile on his face and stirred his coffee mechanically. A waiter came to the table. ‘Mrs Hansen?’
Diana looked up. ‘Yes.’
‘A telephone call.’
‘Thank you.’ She looked at Denison apologetically. ‘I told someone I’d be here. Do you mind?’
‘Not at all.’ She stood up and left the restaurant, going into the lobby. He watched her until she was out of sight and then stopped stirring his coffee and put the spoon in the saucer with a clink. Thoughtfully he looked at the handbag on the other side of the table.
Mrs Hansen! He could bear to know more about that. He stretched out his hand slowly and picked up the handbag, which was curiously heavy. Holding it on his lap, below the level of the table, he snapped open the catch and bent his head to look inside.
When Diana came back the bag was back in its place. She sat down, picked it up, and took out a packet of cigarettes. ‘Still not smoking, Harry?’
He shook his head. ‘They still taste foul.’
Soon thereafter he signed the bill and they left, parting in the lobby, he to go to bed and she to go to wherever she lived. He had decided against making a pass at Mrs Diana Hansen because it was most unlikely that Dr Harold Feltham Meyrick would be having an affaire with a woman who carried a gun – even if it was only a small gun.
TEN (#ulink_19951f4e-a66f-5efd-8140-e78eebb91659)
The next day was boring. He obeyed instructions and stayed in the hotel waiting to hear from McCready. He breakfasted in his room and ordered English newspapers. Nothing had changed – the news was as bad as ever.
At mid-morning he left the room to allow the maid to clean up, and went down to the lobby where he saw the Kidders at the porter’s desk. He hung back, taking an inordinate interest in a showcase full of Norwegian silver, while Kidder discussed in a loud voice the possibilities of different bus tours. Finally they left the hotel and he came out of cover.
He discovered that the bookshop on the corner of the street had a convenient entrance inside the hotel, so he bought a stack of English paperbacks and took them to his room. He read for the rest of the day, gutting the books, his mind in low gear. He had a curious reluctance to think about his present predicament and, once, when he put a book aside and tried to think coherently, his mind skittered about and he felt the unreasoning panic come over him. When he picked up the book again his head was aching.
At ten that night no contact had been made and he thought of ringing the Embassy and asking for McCready but the strange disinclination to thought had spread to action and he was irresolute. He looked at the telephone for a while, and then slowly undressed and went to bed.
He was almost asleep when there was a tap at his door. He sat up and listened and it came again, a discreet double knock. He switched on the light and put on Meyrick’s bathrobe, then went to the door. It was McCready, who came in quickly and closed the door behind him. ‘Ready for the doctor?’ he asked.
Denison frowned. ‘At this time of night?’
‘Why not?’ asked McCready lightly.
Denison sighed. It was just one more mystery to add to the others. He reached for his underwear and took off the bathrobe. McCready picked up the pyjamas which were lying neatly folded on top of the suitcase. ‘You don’t wear these?’
‘Meyrick did.’ Denison sat on the edge of the bed to put on his socks. ‘I don’t.’
‘Oh!’ McCready thoughtfully tugged at his ear.
When Denison picked up his jacket he turned to McCready. ‘There’s something you ought to know, I suppose. Diana Hansen carries …’
‘Who?’ asked McCready.
‘The redhead I took to dinner – her name is Diana Hansen. She carries a gun.’
McCready went still. ‘She does? How do you know?’
‘I looked in her handbag.’
‘Enterprising of you. I’ll tell Carey – he’ll be interested.’ McCready took Denison by the arm. ‘Let’s go.’
McCready’s car was in the garage and when he drove out into the street he turned left which Denison knew was away from the Embassy. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Not far,’ said McCready. ‘Five minutes. Possess your soul in patience.’
Within two minutes Denison was lost. The car twisted and turned in the strange streets until his sense of direction deserted him. Whether McCready was deliberately confusing him he did not know, but he thought it likely. Another possibility was that McCready was intent on shaking off any possible followers.
After a few minutes the car pulled up outside a large building which could have been a block of flats. They went inside and into a lift which took them to the fifth floor. McCready unlocked a door and motioned Denison inside. He found himself in a hall with doors on each side. McCready opened one of them, and said, ‘This is Mr Iredale. He’ll fix up your side for you.’
Iredale was a sallow, middle-aged man, balding and with deep grooves cut from the base of his nose to the corners of his mouth. He said pleasantly, ‘Come in, Mr Denison; let me have a look at you.’
Denison heard the door close behind him and turned to find that McCready had already gone. He whirled around to confront Iredale. ‘I thought I was being taken to a doctor.’
‘I am a doctor,’ said Iredale. ‘I’m also a surgeon. We surgeons have a strange inverted snobbery – we’re called “mister” and not “doctor”. I’ve never known why. Take off your coat, Mr Denison, and let me see the damage.’
Denison hesitated and slowly took off his jacket and then his shirt. ‘If you’ll lie on the couch?’ suggested Iredale, and opened a black bag which could only have been the property of a doctor. Somewhat reassured, Denison lay down.
Iredale snipped away the bandages with a small pair of scissors and examined the slash. ‘Nasty,’ he said. ‘But clean. It will need a local anaesthetic. Are you allergic to anaesthetic, Mr Denison?’
‘I don’t know – I don’t think so.’
‘You’ll just feel three small pricks – no more.’ Iredale took out a hypodermic syringe and filled it from a small phial. ‘Lie still.’
Denison felt the pricks, and Iredale said, ‘While we’re waiting for that to take effect you can sit up.’ He took an ophthalmoscope from his bag. ‘I’d just like to look at your eyes.’ He flashed a light into Denison’s right eye. ‘Had any alcohol lately?’
‘No.’
Iredale switched to the left eye upon which he spent more time. ‘That seems to be all right,’ he said.
‘I was stabbed in the side, not hit on the head,’ said Denison. ‘I don’t have concussion.’
Iredale put away the ophthalmoscope. ‘So you have a little medical knowledge.’ He put his hands to Denison’s face and palpated the flesh under the chin. ‘You know what they say about a little knowledge.’ He stood up and looked down at the top of Denison’s head, and then his fingers explored the hairline. ‘Don’t knock the experts, Mr Denison – they know what they’re doing.’
‘What sort of a doctor are you?’ asked Denison suspiciously.
Iredale ignored that. ‘Ever had scalp trouble? Dandruff, for instance?’
‘No.’
‘I see. Right.’ He touched Denison’s side. ‘Feel anything?’
‘It’s numb but I can feel pressure.’
‘Good,’ said Iredale. ‘I’m going to stitch the wound closed. You won’t feel anything – but if you do then shout like hell.’ He put on rubber gloves which he took out of a sealed plastic bag and then took some fine thread out of another small packet. ‘I’d turn your head away,’ he advised. ‘Lie down.’
He worked on Denison’s side for about fifteen minutes and Denison felt nothing but the pressure of his fingers. At last he said, ‘All right, Mr Denison; I’ve finished.’
Denison sat up and looked at his side. The wound was neatly closed and held by a row of minute stitches. ‘I’ve always been good at needlework,’ said Iredale conversationally. ‘When the stitches are out there’ll be but a hairline. In a year you won’t be able to see it.’
Denison said, ‘This isn’t a doctor’s surgery. Who are you?’
Iredale packed his bag rapidly and stood up. ‘There’ll be another doctor to see you in a moment.’ He walked to the door and closed it behind him.
There was something about the way the door closed that vaguely alarmed Denison. He stood up and walked to the door and found it locked. Frowning, he turned away and looked about the room. There was the settee on which he had been lying, a table, two armchairs and a bookcase against the wall. He went over to the bookcase to inspect it and tripped over a wire which threatened to topple a telephone from a small table. He rescued the telephone and then stood looking down at it.
Iredale walked along the corridor and into a room at the end. Carey glanced up at him expectantly, breaking off his conversation with McCready. Harding, the psychiatrist, sat in an armchair, his long legs outstretched and his fingertips pressed together. There was also another man whom Iredale did not know. Carey saw Iredale looking at him, and said, ‘Ian Armstrong of my staff. Well?’ He could not suppress his eagerness.
Iredale put down his case. ‘He’s not Meyrick.’ He paused. ‘Not unless Meyrick has had plastic surgery recently.’
Carey blew out his breath in a long gasp. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure,’ said Iredale, a little testily.
‘That’s it, then.’ Carey looked across at Harding. ‘It’s your turn, Dr Harding. Try to get out of him as much as you can.’
Harding nodded and uncoiled himself from the chair. He walked out of the room without speaking. As the door closed Carey said, ‘You understand that, to the best of our knowledge, this alteration was made in the space of a week – not more.’ He took a thin, cardboard file from the table. ‘We’ve just received a lengthy cable from London about Denison – and a photo came over the wire.’ He took the photograph and handed it to Iredale. ‘That’s Denison as he was quite recently. It hardly seems possible.’
Iredale studied the photograph. ‘Very interesting,’ he commented.
‘Could this thing be done in a week?’ Carey persisted.
Iredale put down the photograph. ‘As far as I could ascertain there was only one lesion,’ he said precisely. ‘That was at the outside corner of the left eyelid. A very small cut which was possibly held together by one stitch while it healed. It would certainly heal in a week although there might have been a residual soreness. I detected a minute inflammation.’
McCready said in disbelief, ‘You mean that was the only cut that was made?’
‘Yes,’ said Iredale. ‘The purpose was to draw down the left eyelid. Have you got that photograph of Meyrick?’
‘Here,’ said Carey.
Iredale put down his forefinger. ‘There – you see? The eyelid was drawn down due to the skin contraction caused by this scar.’ He paused and said sniffily, ‘A bit of a butcher’s job, if you ask me. That should never have happened.’
‘It was a war wound when Meyrick was a boy,’ said Carey. He tapped the photograph of Meyrick. ‘But how the devil did they reproduce this scar on Denison without cutting?’
‘That was very cleverly done,’ said Iredale with sudden enthusiasm. ‘As expert a job of tattooing as I’ve ever seen, as also was the birthmark on the right jaw.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘In my field, of course, I come across a lot of tattooing but I specialize in removal rather than application.’ He leaned forward again and traced a line on the photograph. ‘The hairline was adjusted by depilation; nothing as crude as mere shaving and leaving the hair to grow out. I’m afraid Mr Denison has lost his hair permanently.’
‘That’s all very well,’ said McCready, coming forward. He leaned over the table, comparing the two photographs. ‘But just look at these two men. Denison is thin in the face, and he’d look thinner without the beard. Meyrick is fat-jowled. And look at the differences in the noses.’
‘That was done by liquid silicone injection,’ said Iredale. ‘Some of my more light-minded colleagues aid film stars in their mammary development by the same means.’ His tone was distasteful. ‘I palpated his cheeks and felt it. It was quite unmistakable.’
‘I’ll be damned!’ said Carey.
‘You say that Denison lost a week of objective time?’ asked Iredale.
‘He said he’d lost a week out of his life – if that’s what you mean.’
‘Then I can hazard a guess as to how it was done,’ said Iredale. ‘He was drugged, of course, and kept unconscious for the whole week. I noticed a dressing on his left arm. I didn’t investigate it, but that was where the intravenous drip feed was inserted to keep him alive.’
He paused, and Carey said in a fascinated voice, ‘Go on!’
‘The cut would be made at the corner of the eye, giving it a full week to heal. Any competent surgeon could do that in five minutes. Then I suppose they’d do the tattooing. Normally there’d be a residual soreness from that, but it would certainly clear up in a week. Everything else could be done at leisure.’
He picked up the two photographs. ‘You see, the underlying bone structure of these two men, as far as the heads go, is remarkably similar. I rather think that if you had a photograph of Meyrick taken fifteen to twenty years ago he would look not unlike Denison or, rather, as Denison used to look. I take it that Meyrick has been used to expensive living?’
‘He’s rich enough,’ said Carey.
‘It shows on his face,’ said Iredale, and tossed down the photographs. ‘Denison, however, looks a shade undernourished.’
‘Interesting you should say that,’ said Carey, opening the folder. ‘From what we have here it seems that Denison, if not an alcoholic, was on the verge. He’d just lost his job – fired for incompetence on June 24.’
Iredale nodded. ‘Symptomatic. Alcoholics reject food – they get their calories from the booze.’ He stood up. ‘That’s all I can do tonight, gentlemen. I should like to see Denison tomorrow with a view to restoring him to his former appearance, which won’t be easy – that silicone polymer will be the devil to get out. Is there any more?’
‘Nothing, Mr Iredale,’ said Carey.
‘Then if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go to bed. It’s been a long day.’
‘You know where your room is,’ said Carey, and Iredale nodded and left the room.
Carey and McCready looked at each other in silence for some time, and then Carey stirred and said over his shoulder, ‘What did you make of all that, Ian?’
‘I’m damned if I know,’ said Armstrong.
Carey grunted. ‘I’m damned, too. I’ve been involved in some bizarre episodes in this game, but this takes the prize for looniness. Now we’ll have to see what Harding comes up with, and I suspect he’s going to be a long time. I think somebody had better make coffee. It’s going to be a long night.’
Carey was right because more than two hours elapsed before Harding returned. His face was troubled, and he said abruptly, ‘I don’t think Denison should be left alone.’
‘Ian!’ said Carey.
Armstrong got up, and Harding said, ‘If he wants to talk let him. Join in but steer clear of specifics. Stick to generalities. Understand?’
Armstrong nodded and went out. Harding sat down and Carey studied him. Finally Carey said, ‘You look as though you could do with a drink, Doctor. Whisky?’
Harding nodded. ‘Thanks.’ He rubbed his. forehead. ‘Denison is in a bad way.’
Carey poured two ounces of whisky into a glass. ‘How?’
‘He’s been tampered with,’ said Harding flatly.
Carey handed him the glass. ‘His mind?’
Harding sank half the whisky and choked a little. He held out the glass. ‘I’ll have water in the other half. Yes. Someone has been bloody ruthless about it. He has a week missing, and whatever was done to him was done in that week.’
Carey frowned. ‘Iredale suggested he’d been unconscious all that week.’
‘It’s not incompatible,’ said Harding. ‘He was probably kept in a mentally depressed state by drugs during the whole week.’
‘Are you talking about brain-washing?’ asked McCready sceptically.
‘In a manner of speaking.’ Harding accepted his refilled glass. ‘Whoever did this to Denison had a problem. The ideal would have been to get Denison into such a condition that he thought he was Meyrick – but that couldn’t be done.’ Harding paused for consideration. ‘At least, not in a week.’
‘You mean the possibility of such a thing is there?’ asked Carey incredulously.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Harding calmly. ‘It could be done. But this crowd didn’t have the time for that, so they had to go about it another way. As I see it, their problem was to put Denison in the hotel as Meyrick and to make sure he didn’t fly off the handle. They didn’t want him to take the next plane to London, for instance. So they treated him.’ From Harding’s mouth the emphasis was an obscenity.
‘How?’ said Carey.
‘Do you know anything about hypnosis?’
McCready snorted and Harding, staring at him with suddenly flinty eyes, said coldly, ‘No, it is not witchcraft, Mr McCready. Denison was kept in a drug-induced hypnogogic state for a long time, and in that period his psyche was deliberately broken down.’ He made a suddenly disarming gesture. ‘I suspect Denison was already neurotically inclined and no doubt there were many ready-made tools to hand – irrational fears, half-healed traumas and so on – to aid in the process.’
‘What do you mean by neurotically inclined?’ asked Carey.
‘It’s hard to say, but I suspect that he was already a disturbed man before this was done to him.’
‘Off his head?’ interjected McCready.
Harding gave him a look of dislike. ‘No more than yourself, Mr McCready,’ he said tartly. ‘But I think something had happened which threw him off balance.’
‘Something did happen,’ said Carey. ‘He lost his job.’ He took a thin sheaf of papers from the file. ‘I didn’t have time to discuss this with you before, but this is what we have on Denison. There’ll be more coming but this is what we’ve got now.’
Harding studied the typed sheets, reading slowly and carefully. He said, ‘I wish I’d seen this before I went in to Denison; it would have saved a lot of trouble.’
‘He was a film director for a small specialist outfit making documentary and advertising films,’ said Carey. ‘Apparently he went off the rails and cost the firm a packet of money. They thought his drinking had got out of hand, so they fired him.’
Harding shook his head. ‘That wasn’t what threw him off balance. The drinking must have been a symptom, not a cause.’ He turned back a page. ‘I see that his wife died three years ago. She must have been quite young. Have you any idea how she died?’
‘Not yet,’ said Carey. ‘But I can find out.’
‘It would be advisable. I wonder if it was about that time he started to drink heavily.’
‘That isn’t the present point at issue,’ said Carey.
Harding’s voice took on an edge. ‘It is for me,’ he said curtly. ‘I have to treat the man.’
Carey’s voice was soothing. ‘I know, Doctor, and you shall have all the relevant information as soon as we get it ourselves. But my present interest is in what was done to Denison and how it was done.’
Harding was placated. ‘Very well. Denison was literally dismantled. All he retained was a name and a location – and the location wasn’t very exact. Giles Denison of Hampstead. They could, of course, have induced complete amnesia, but that wouldn’t do because Denison had to substitute for Meyrick and he would need enough active personality to carry out the role. Why Denison had to act as Meyrick I don’t know.’
‘I have ideas on that,’ said Carey. ‘Go on, Doctor.’
‘At the same time Denison must not retain too much personality, certainly not enough for him to reject the persona that had been thrust upon him. He had to be kept in a sort of limbo. There were some very strong blocks inserted into his mind to the effect that he should not question his origins. In addition, to confuse the issue, he has been given selective false memories. For instance, he distinctly remembers playing a game of golf, but at the same time he knows that he has never played a game of golf in his life. So he is a very confused man and this leads to a paralysis of the will, enough to make him stay in one place – a hotel in Oslo – while he tries to sort things out.’
McCready stirred restlessly. ‘Is all this possible?’
‘Quite possible. If I draw an imaginary square on the floor of this room I could hypnotize you into avoiding it by a post-hypnotic suggestion. You could spend the rest of your life coming in and out of this room but you would never walk on that imaginary square. More to the point, you would not be aware of the irrationality of your behaviour.’
McCready looked sceptical, and Harding said, ‘I’m willing to give you a demonstration at any time.’
‘No!’ said McCready hurriedly. ‘I believe you.’
Carey smiled grimly. ‘Carry on, Doctor.’
‘The mind is a self-stabilizing organism,’ said Harding. ‘If it wasn’t we’d all go crazy. And to inquire is basic. When Denison did try to delve into his past life he encountered the blocks and was so shocked at the impossibility of what he found in his own mind that he took refuge in a fugue.’ He saw the incomprehension on Carey’s face, and said simply, ‘He fell asleep. A typical hysterical symptom. He did it twice when he was talking to me. I let him sleep for a quarter of an hour each time, and when he woke up he’d forgotten the reason for it – wiped it out of his mind. It’s a self-protective mechanism against insanity, and I rather think it’s happened to him before.’
‘I don’t think I’ve got this straight,’ said Carey. ‘You’re saying that Denison is half out of his mind and likely to fall asleep – or unconscious – at any time. How do you square that with the fact that he pulled the wool over one of my people’s eyes very successfully, and that he encountered a very tricky situation which might have been the death of him and coped with it very well?’
‘Oh, he’s quite competent,’ said Harding. ‘It’s only when he tries to question his own past that he faces the impossible and goes into a fugue. Judging by what you told me of the manner in which he was wounded I’d say that he’s more competent than I would have expected under the circumstances.’
‘He’s bloody competent,’ said McCready suddenly, and Carey turned to look at him. ‘I haven’t told you this, but he’s tagged Mrs Hansen.’
‘He’s what?’
‘He knows she carries a gun – he told me so. He said he thought I ought to know.’
Harding wore an I-told-you-so expression and Carey’s face was a study in bafflement. ‘Another thing,’ said McCready. ‘Alcoholic or not, he’s on the wagon now. Mrs Hansen said he tried a whisky last night and he gave the impression that he’d swallowed prussic acid.’
‘Interesting,’ said Harding. ‘The man’s mind has been stirred like porridge. It would be remarkable if it has cured his alcoholism. However, I’m afraid the cure is much worse than the complaint. He’ll have to be hospitalized, of course. I can make the arrangements for that.’
Carey stood up. ‘Thank you, Dr Harding.’
Harding also arose. ‘I’d like to see him again tomorrow. What’s going to happen to him now?’
‘I’ll take good care of him,’ said Carey smoothly.
‘You’d better,’ warned Harding. ‘If he doesn’t get skilled attention he’s quite likely to go insane.’ He yawned. ‘Well, I’m off to bed.’
He left the room and Carey sat down again. He picked up the two photographs and brooded over them. McCready said, ‘That’s it, then; the whole thing’s a bust. No Meyrick – no operation.’
Carey did not say anything, and McCready asked, ‘What are you thinking?’
Carey said slowly, ‘I’m thinking that, while we may not have Meyrick, we’ve got a bloody good substitute.’
McCready’s jaw dropped. ‘You mean you want to hang on to him? You heard what Harding just said – the man’s likely to go crazy. It’s not what I’d call ethical.’
‘Don’t talk to me about ethics,’ said Carey harshly. ‘I have a job to do.’ He threw down the photographs. ‘Iredale wants to give Denison his face back, and Harding wants to restore his past. If we let Harding at him tomorrow with his tricky bloody hypnotism then Denison is going to pick up his marbles and go home.’
He frowned and came to a decision. ‘Take him back to the hotel,’ he said abruptly.
‘For Christ’s sake!’ said McCready. ‘Do you know what you’re doing?’
‘I know,’ said Carey. ‘But just work this one out while you’re taking Denison back. When the attempt was being made on Denison’s life at the Spiralen who was being attacked – Denison or Meyrick?’
McCready opened his mouth slowly while his mind spun. Carey said, ‘Denison must be watched. The guard on his room stays and I want somebody outside keeping an eye on his window. And I want that whole bloody hotel sewn up tight. Now get cracking.’
McCready dropped Denison off in the garage of the hotel. ‘I won’t come up,’ he said. ‘But I’ll see you tomorrow.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Which is today. God, it’s nearly five o’clock in the morning. You get to bed.’
They had both been silent during the short drive. Now Denison said, ‘What was all that about? I understood the first doctor, but the second was a psychiatrist, wasn’t he?’
McCready said, ‘Carey will be seeing you tomorrow. He’ll explain everything.’ He paused, biting his lip. ‘I promise you.’
‘All right,’ said Denison. ‘I’m too tired to argue now. But Carey had better come up with something good.’ He nodded to McCready and walked towards the stairs. He did not look back, but if he had and if he had been able to interpret the look in McCready’s eyes he might have recognized compassion.
Denison opened the door leading into the hotel lobby and saw suitcases stacked into a pile. There was a peal of laughter from the group of early arrivals, a crowd of young people who adorned the lobby like butterflies. He walked towards the porter’s desk and stood waiting while the overworked night porter did his best to deal with the rush.
At last, Denison caught his eye, and said, Three-sixty, please.’
‘Yes, Mr Meyrick.’ The porter unhooked the key.
Denison did not see the girl who stared at him in surprise, but heard the cool voice behind him saying, ‘Daddy!’ He turned leisurely and was suddenly and horrifyingly aware that the young woman was addressing him.
ELEVEN (#ulink_d14622c6-1fdb-5131-81c8-c0d7df8c04e1)
It was greatly to Denison’s credit that he did not panic. His first impulse was to step back and deny he was Meyrick – that it was a question of mistaken identity. Hard on that decision came the realization that it would not do; the night porter knew his name and was within earshot, and, in any case, a disclaimer in the hotel lobby was sure to create a fuss. He cancelled the impulse.
She was kissing him and he felt his own lips hard and unresponsive. Perhaps it was his lack of reaction that caused her to step back, the smile fading from her face. She said, ‘I was hoping to find you here, but I hardly expected to run into you in the same hotel – and at five in the morning. What are you doing up so early – or so late?’
She was young – not much more than twenty – and had the clear eyes and clear skin of youth. Her eyes were grey and her mouth wide and generous, perhaps too wide for perfect beauty. To the untutored male eye she wore no make-up but perhaps that was a tribute to skill.
He swallowed. ‘I was visiting a friend; the talk tended to go on a bit.’
‘Oh.’ She thrust her hands deep into the pockets of her motoring coat and turned her head to look at the harassed porter. ‘It’s going to take hours before I get my room. Can I freshen up in yours? I must look a sight.’
His mouth was dry and, for a moment, he could not speak. She looked at him curiously. ‘You are staying here?’ Then she laughed. ‘Of course you are; you have the key in your hand.’
‘I just have to make a telephone call,’ he said, and stepped away slightly, disengaging himself.
‘Why not from the room?’
‘It’s just as easy from down here.’ He walked away to the public telephones, fumbling in his pocket for coins.
The public telephones were not in booths but were surrounded by large transparent plastic hoods which theoretically would keep conversations private. He was aware that the girl had followed him and was standing close by. He took out his wallet, extracted a slip of paper, and dialled the number. The ringing sound buzzed in his ear six times, and then a voice said, ‘Yes?’
He kept his voice low. ‘I want Carey.’
‘You’ll have to speak up. I can’t hear you.’
He raised his voice a little. ‘I want to talk to Carey.’
Doubtfully: ‘I don’t think that’s possible. He’s in bed.’
‘I don’t care if he’s in his coffin. Get him up. This is Denison.’
There was a sharp intake of breath. ‘Right!’
In a remarkably short time Carey came on the line. ‘Denison?’
‘It’s trouble. Meyrick’s …’
Carey cut in with a voice like gravel. ‘How did you know to ring this number?’
‘For God’s sake! That can wait.’
‘How did you know?’ insisted Carey.
‘There was a telephone in the room where I saw the doctors,’ said Denison. ‘I took the number off that.’
‘Oh!’ said Carey. Then, with grudging respect, ‘Harding said you were competent; now I believe him. All right; what’s your problem?’
‘Meyrick’s daughter has just pitched up at the hotel.’
The telephone blasted in his ear. ‘What!’
‘What the hell am I to do?’ said Denison desperately. ‘I don’t even know her bloody name.’
‘Jesus H. Christ!’ said Carey. ‘Wait a minute.’ There was a confused murmur and then Carey said, ‘Her name is Lyn – L-Y-N.’
‘Do you know anything else about her?’
‘How the devil would I?’ demanded Carey. ‘Not off the top of my head.’
‘Damn you!’ said Denison violently. ‘I have to talk to this girl. I must know something about her. She’s my daughter.’
‘Is she there now?’
Denison looked sideways through the plastic hood. ‘She’s standing within ten feet of me. I’m in the hotel lobby and I don’t know how soundproof this canopy is. She wants to come to my room.’
‘I’ll do what I can,’ said Carey. ‘Hold on.’
‘Make it quick.’ Out of the corner of his eye he saw the girl walking towards him. He put his head around the edge of the hood, and said, ‘I won’t be a minute, Lyn. Is there anything you want to take up to the room?’
‘Oh, yes; my little travelling bag. I’ll go and get it.’
He watched her walk across the lobby with a bouncing stride, and felt the sweat break out on his forehead. Carey came back on the line. ‘Margaret Lyn Meyrick – but she prefers Lyn – Meyrick’s daughter by his first wife.’
Denison digested that, and said quickly, ‘Is her mother still alive?’
‘Yes – divorced and remarried.’
‘Name?’
‘Patricia Joan Metford – her husband is John Howard Metford; he’s something in the City.’
‘What about Meyrick’s present wife?’
‘There isn’t one. Also divorced three years ago. Her name was Janet Meyrick, née Austin.’
‘About the girl – what does she do? Her work? Her hobbies?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Carey. ‘All this stuff is from Meyrick’s dossier. We didn’t delve into the daughter.’
‘You’d better get something fast,’ said Denison. ‘Look, Carey; I don’t know why I’m doing this for you. My impulse right now is to blow the whole thing.’
‘Don’t do that,’ said Carey quickly. ‘I’ll get as much information on the Meyrick girl as I can and I’ll let you have it as soon as possible.’
‘How?’
‘I’ll send it in a sealed envelope by special messenger; she doesn’t have to know what’s on the sheet of paper you’re reading. And if things get too tough I’ll find a way of separating her from you. But, Denison – don’t blow your cover, whatever you do.’
There was a pleading quality in Carey’s voice and Carey, in Denison’s brief experience of him, was not a man who was used to pleading. Denison thought it a good opportunity to turn the screw. ‘I’ve been given the fast run around by you ever since this … this indecent thing was done to me. Now I want an explanation – a full explanation – and it had better be good.’ He was aware that his voice had risen and that he was in danger of becoming hysterical.
‘You’ll get your explanation today,’ promised Carey. ‘Now do your best to handle that girl.’
‘I don’t know if I can. It’s one thing fooling a stranger and another to try it on a member of Meyrick’s family.’
‘We may be lucky,’ said Carey. ‘I don’t think they were too close. I think she was brought up by her mother.’
Denison turned to face the lobby. ‘I’ll have to go now – the girl’s coming.’ He put down the telephone and heard a faint, squawking noise just before the connection was broken. It sounded as though Carey had said, ‘Good luck!’
He walked away from the telephone as she approached. ‘All finished.’
She fell into step with him. ‘You looked as if you were having an argument.’
‘Did I?’
‘I know you’re an argumentative type, but I wondered who you’d found to argue with at five o’clock in the morning in the middle of Oslo.’
They stopped in front of the lifts and Denison pressed the button. ‘Where have you just come from?’
‘Bergen. I hired a car and drove over. Most of yesterday and all night.’ She sighed. ‘I feel a bit pooped.’
He kept his voice neutral. ‘Travelling alone?’
‘Yes.’ She smiled, and said, ‘Wondering about a boyfriend?’
He nodded towards the thinning group in the lobby. ‘I just thought you were with that lot.’ The lift arrived and they stepped inside. ‘No wonder you’re tired if you did all that driving. What it is to be young.’
‘Right now I feel as old as Methuselah,’ she said glumly. ‘It’s the hunger that does it. I’ll feel better after breakfast, I dare say.’
He risked a probe. ‘How old are you, Lyn? I tend to lose track.’
‘Yes, you do, don’t you? You even forgot my twenty-first – or did you forget?’ There was an unexpected bitterness in her voice. ‘Any father who could do that …’ She stopped and bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry, Daddy. It’s my birthday next week.’
‘That’s all right.’ There was an undercurrent of antagonism Denison did not understand. He hesitated, and said, ‘Anyway, you’re old enough to stop calling me Daddy. What’s wrong with Harry?’
She looked at him in surprise and then impulsively squeezed his hand.
They had arrived at the room door and he unlocked it. ‘Bedroom straight ahead – bathroom to the left.’
She walked ahead of him into the bedroom and put down the travelling bag. ‘The bathroom for me,’ she said. ‘I want to wash off some of the grime.’ She opened the bag, picked out a couple of small articles, and disappeared into the bathroom.
He heard the sound of water as she turned on a tap and then he picked up the telephone. ‘This is room three-sixty. If there are any messages for Meyrick – or anything at all – I want to know immediately.’ He put down the telephone and looked contemplatively at the travelling bag.
The bathroom noises continued so he crossed the room quickly and looked into the bag. It was more neatly packed than he had expected which made it easier to search. He saw the blue cover of a British passport and took it out and turned the pages. It was Lyn Meyrick’s birthday on July 21, and she would be twenty-two. Her occupation was given as teacher.
He put the passport back and took out a book of traveller’s cheques. As he flicked through them he whistled softly; the Meyrick family did not believe in stinting themselves. There was a wallet fitted with acetate envelopes which contained credit cards and photographs. He had no time to examine these in detail because he thought she might come out of the bathroom at any moment.
He thrust back the wallet and zipped open a small interior pocket in the bag. It contained the key for a rented car and a bunch of smaller keys. As he zipped it closed he heard all sound cease in the bathroom and, when she emerged, he was standing by the armchair taking off his jacket.
‘That’s much better,’ she said. She had taken off the motoring coat and, in lime green sweater and stretch pants, she looked very trim. ‘When is the earliest I can order breakfast?’
He checked his watch. ‘Not much before half past six, I think. Perhaps the night porter can rustle up sandwiches and coffee.’
She frowned and sat on the bed. ‘No, I’ll wait and have a proper breakfast.’ Blinking her eyes, she said, ‘I still feel as though I’m driving.’
‘You shouldn’t push so hard.’
‘That isn’t what you told me the last time we met.’
Denison did not know what to make of that, so he said neutrally. ‘No.’ The silence lengthened. ‘How’s your mother?’ he asked.
‘She’s all right,’ said Lyn indifferently. ‘But, my God, he’s such a bore.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, he just sits in an office and makes money. Oh, I know you’re rich, but you made money by making things. He just makes money.’
Denison presumed that ‘he’ was John Howard Metford who was ‘something in the City’. ‘Metford isn’t such a bad chap,’ he said.
‘He’s a bore,’ she said definitely. ‘And it isn’t what you said about him last time.’
Denison decided against making gratuitous judgements. ‘How did you know I was here?’ he asked.
‘I got it out of Andrews,’ she said. ‘When he told me you were in Scandinavia I knew you’d be here or in Helsinki.’ She seemed suddenly nervous. ‘Now I’m not sure I should have come.’
Denison realized he was standing over her. He sat in the armchair and, perhaps in response, she stretched out on the bed. ‘Why not?’ he asked.
‘You can’t be serious when you ask that.’ Her voice was bitter. ‘I still remember the flaming row we had two years ago – and when you didn’t remember my twenty-first birthday I knew you hadn’t forgotten. But, of course, you didn’t forget my birthday – you never forget anything.’
He was getting into deep water. ‘Two years is a long time,’ he said platitudinously. He would have to learn how to speak like a politician – saying a lot and meaning nothing.
‘You’ve changed,’ she said. ‘You’re … you’re milder.’
That would never do. ‘I can still be acid when I want to be.’ He smiled. ‘Perhaps I’m just becoming older and, maybe, wiser.’
‘You always were wise,’ said Lyn. ‘If only you weren’t so bloody right all the time. Anyway, I wanted to tell you something to your face. I was disappointed when I found you weren’t in England, so I rushed over here.’ She hesitated. ‘Give me a cigarette.’
‘I’ve stopped smoking.’
She stared at him. ‘You have changed.’
‘Temporarily,’ he said, and stretched out his hand to open a drawer in the dressing-table. He took out the gold cigarette case and the lighter and offered her a cigarette. ‘I’ve had a bad head cold.’
She took a cigarette and he lit it. ‘That never stopped you before.’ She drew on the cigarette nervously and blew a plume of smoke. ‘I suppose you’re surprised I’m not smoking a joint.’
Denison suspected that he was encountering something of which hitherto he had only heard – the generation gap. He said, ‘Stop talking nonsense, Lyn. What’s on your mind?’
‘Direct and to the point as usual. All right – I’ve taken my degree.’
She looked at him expectantly and he was aware that she had dropped a bombshell. How he was supposed to react to it he did not know, but the damned thing had better be defused carefully. However, taking a degree was usually a matter for congratulation, so he said, ‘That’s good news, Lyn.’
She regarded him warily. ‘You mean it?’
‘It’s the best news I’ve heard for a long time.’
She seemed relieved. ‘Mother thought it was silly. She said that with all the money I’m going to have why should I worry about working – especially with a lot of snotty-nosed East End kids. You know what she’s like. And the Bore didn’t care one way or another.’ For a moment she sounded pathetic. ‘Do you really mean it?’
‘Of course I do.’ He found he was really glad for her and that put sincerity into his voice.
‘Oh, Daddy; I’m so glad!’ She scrambled off the bed and went to her bag. ‘Look what it says in here. I had to get a new passport, anyway.’ She opened the passport and displayed it ‘Occupation – teacher!’ she said proudly.
He looked up. ‘Was it a good degree?’
She made a wry face. ‘Middling-good.’ There was no smile on her face now. ‘I suppose you think a Meyrick should have passed with honours.’
Mentally he damned Meyrick who, apparently, set a superhuman standard. This girl was set on a hair trigger and his slightest word could cause an explosion in which somebody would get hurt – probably Lyn. ‘I’m very glad you’ve got your degree,’ he said evenly. ‘Where are you going to teach?’
The tension eased from her and she lay on the bed again. ‘First I need experience,’ she said seriously. ‘General experience. Then I want to specialize. After that, if I’m going to have a lot of money I might as well put it to use.’
‘How?’
‘I’ll have to know more about what I’m doing before I can tell you that.’
Denison wondered how this youthful idealism would stand up to the battering of the world. Still, a lot could be done with enthusiasm and money. He smiled, and said, ‘You seem to have settled on a lifetime plan. Is there room in the programme for marriage and a family?’
‘Of course; but he’ll have to be the right man – he’ll have to want what I want.’ She shrugged. ‘So far no one like that has come my way. The men at university could be divided into two classes; the stodges who are happy with the present system, and the idealists who aren’t. The stodges are already working out their retirement pensions before they get a job and the idealists are so damned naive and impractical. Neither of them suit me.’
‘Someone will come along who will,’ predicted Denison.
‘How can you be so sure?’
He laughed. ‘How do you suppose the population explosion came about? Men and women usually get together somehow. It’s in the nature of the animal.’
She put out her cigarette and lay back and closed her eyes. ‘I’m prepared to wait.’
‘My guess is that you won’t have to wait long.’ She did not respond and he regarded her intently. She had fallen asleep as readily as a puppy might, which was not surprising considering she had been up all night. So had he, but sleep was the last thing he could afford.
He put on his jacket and took the keys from the zippered compartment of her bag. In the lobby he saw two suitcases standing before the desk and, after checking to make sure they were Lyn’s, he said to the porter, ‘I’d like these taken to my daughter’s room. What’s the number?’
‘Did she have a reservation, Mr Meyrick?’
‘It’s possible.’
The porter checked and took down a key. ‘Room four-thirty. I’ll take the bags up.’
In Lyn’s room Denison tipped the porter and put the two cases on the bed as soon as the door closed. He took out the keys and unlocked them and searched them quickly, trying not to disturb the contents too much. There was little that was of value to him directly, but there were one or two items which cast a light on Lyn Meyrick. There was a photograph of himself – or, rather, of Harry Meyrick – in a leather case. The opposing frame was empty. In a corner of one suitcase was a small Teddy-bear, tattered with much childish loving and presumably retained as a mascot. In the other suitcase he found two textbooks, one on the theory and practice of teaching, the other on child psychology; both heavyweights, the pages sprinkled with diagrams and graphs.
He closed and locked the suitcases and put them on the rack, then went down to his own room. As the lift door opened on to the third floor he saw Armstrong just stepping out of the other lift. Armstrong held out an envelope. ‘Mr Carey told me to give you this.’
Denison ripped open the envelope and scanned the sparse typescript on the single sheet. The only thing it told him that he had not learned already was that Lyn Meyrick’s sport was gymnastics. ‘Carey will have to do better than this,’ he said curtly.
‘We’re doing the best we can,’ said Armstrong. ‘We’ll get more later in the day when people have woken up in England.’
‘Keep it coming,’ said Denison. ‘And don’t forget to remind Carey that I’m still waiting for an explanation.’
‘I’ll tell him,’ said Armstrong.
‘Another thing,’ said Denison. ‘She said she’d find me either here in Oslo or in Helsinki in Finland. That baffled me until I realized I don’t know a bloody thing about Meyrick. Carey mentioned a dossier on Meyrick – I want to see it.’
‘I don’t think that will be possible,’ said Armstrong hesitantly. ‘You’re not cleared for security.’
Denison speared him with a cold eye. ‘You bloody fool!’ he said quietly. ‘Right now I am your security – and don’t forget to tell Carey that, too.’ He walked past Armstrong and up the corridor to his room.
TWELVE (#ulink_4748f8ca-5471-5318-a593-d0bb6964fbe3)
Carey walked past the Oslo City Hall in the warm mid-afternoon sunshine and inspected the statuary with a sardonic eye. Each figure represented a different trade and the whole, no doubt, was supposed to represent the Dignity of Labour. He concluded that the Oslo City Fathers must have been socialist at one time.
He sat on a bench and looked out over the harbour and Oslofjord. A ship slid quietly by – the ferry bound for Copenhagen – and there was a constant coming and going of smaller, local ferries bound for Bygdøy, Ingierstrand and other places on the fjord. Camera-hung tourists strolled by and a tour bus stopped, disgorging more of them.
McCready walked up and sat on the bench. Carey did not look at him but said dreamily, ‘Once my job was easy – just simple eyeball stuff. That was back in the days when Joshua sent his spies into the land of Caanan. Then the bloody scientists got busy and ballsed the whole thing up.’
McCready said nothing; he had encountered Carey in this mood before and knew there was nothing to do but wait until Carey got it off his chest.
‘Do you realize the state we’ve got ourselves into now?’ asked Carey rhetorically. ‘I think you’re George McCready, but I could be wrong. What’s more, you could think you’re George McCready and, if Harding is to be believed, still be wrong. How the hell am I supposed to cope with a situation like that?’
He disregarded McCready’s opening mouth. ‘The bloody boffins are lousing up the whole damned world,’ he said violently, and pointed towards the line of statuary. ‘Look at that crowd of working stiffs. There’s not a trade represented there that isn’t obsolete or obsolescent. Pretty soon they’ll put up a statue of me; there’ll be a plaque saying “Intelligence agent, Mark II” and my job’ll be farmed out to a hot-shot computer. Where’s Denison?’
‘Asleep in the hotel.’
‘And the girl?’
‘Also asleep – in her own room.’
‘If he’s had five minutes’ sleep that’s five minutes more than I’ve had. Let’s go and wake the poor bastard up. Mrs Hansen will join us at the hotel.’
He stood up, and McCready said, ‘How much are you going to tell him?’
‘As much as I have to and no more,’ said Carey shortly. ‘Which may be more than I want to tell him. He’s already putting the screws on me through young Ian. He wants to see Meyrick’s dossier.’
‘You can’t expect him to carry out an impersonation without knowing something of Meyrick,’ said McCready reasonably.
‘Why did that damned girl have to turn up?’ grumbled Carey. ‘As though we don’t have enough trouble. I had a row with Harding this morning.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘George – I have no option. With Meyrick gone I have to use Denison. I’ll play fair; I’ll tell him the truth – maybe not all of it, but what I tell him will be true – and let him make up his own mind. And if he wants out that’s my hard luck.’
McCready noticed the reservation and shook his head. The truth, in Carey’s hands, could take on a chameleon-like quality. Denison did not stand a chance.
Carey said, ‘Something Iredale told me gave me the shudders. This silicone stuff that was rammed into Denison’s face is a polymer; it’s injected in liquid form and then it hardens in the tissues to the consistency of fat – and it’s permanent. If Denison wants to get his own face back it will be a major surgical operation – they’ll have to take his face apart to scrape the stuff out.’
McCready grimaced. ‘I take it that’s a part of the truth you’re not going to tell him.’
‘That – and a few other titbits from Harding.’ Carey stopped. ‘Well, here’s the hotel. Let’s get it over with.’
Denison woke from a deep sleep to hear hammering on his door. He got up groggily, put on the bathrobe, and opened the door. Carey said, ‘Sorry to waken you, but it’s about time we had a talk.’
Denison blinked at him. ‘Come in.’ He turned and went into the bathroom, and Carey, McCready and Mrs Hansen walked through into the bedroom. When Denison reappeared he was wiping his face with a towel. He stared at Diana Hansen. ‘I might have known.’
‘You two know each other,’ said Carey. ‘Mrs Hansen was keeping tabs on Meyrick.’ He drew back the curtain, letting sunlight spill into the room, and tossed an envelope on to the dressing-table. ‘Some more stuff on the girl. We have quite a few people in England running about in circles on your behalf.’
‘Not mine,’ corrected Denison. ‘Yours!’ He put down the towel. ‘Any moment from now she’s going to start playing “Do you remember when?” No information you can give me will help in that sort of guessing game.’
‘You’ll just have to develop a bad memory,’ said McCready.
‘I need to know more about Meyrick,’ insisted Denison.
‘And I’m here to tell you.’ Carey pulled the armchair forward. ‘Sit down and get comfortable. This is going to take a while.’ He sat in the other chair and pulled out a stubby pipe which he started to fill. McCready and Diana Hansen sat on the spare bed.
Carey struck a match and puffed at his pipe. ‘Before we start on Meyrick you ought to know that we discovered how, and when, the switch was made. We figured how we’d do a thing like that ourselves and then checked on it. You were brought in on a stretcher on July 8 and put in room three-sixty-three, just across the corridor. Meyrick was probably knocked out by a Mickey Finn in his nightly Ovaltine or something like that, and the switch was made in the wee, small hours.’
‘Meyrick was taken out next morning before you woke up,’ said McCready. ‘He was put into an ambulance, the hotel management co-operating, and driven to Pier Two at Vippetangen where he was put aboard a ship sailing to Copenhagen. Another ambulance was waiting there which took him God knows where.’
Carey said, ‘If you’d contacted the Embassy as soon as it happened we’d have been able to work all that out so damned fast that we could have been waiting at Copenhagen.’
‘For God’s sake!’ said Denison. ‘Would you have believed me any the quicker? It took you long enough to check anyway with your doctor and your tame psychiatrist.’
‘He’s right,’ said McCready.
‘Do you think that’s why it was done this way? To buy time?’
‘Could be,’ said McCready. ‘It worked, didn’t it?’
‘Oh, it worked all right. What puzzles me is what happened at the Spiralen the next day.’ Carey turned to Denison. ‘Have you got the doll and the note?’
Denison opened a drawer and handed them to Carey. He unfolded the single deckle-edged sheet and read the note aloud. ‘“Your Drammen Dolly awaits you at Spiraltoppen. Early morning. July 10.”’ He lifted the paper and sniffed delicately. ‘Scented, too. I thought that went out in the 1920s.’
Diana Hansen said, ‘This is the first I’ve heard of a note. I know about the doll, but not the note.’
‘It’s what took Denison to the Spiralen,’ said McCready.
‘Could I see it?’ said Diana, and Carey passed it to her. She read it and said pensively, ‘It could have been …’
‘What is it, Mrs Hansen?’ said Carey sharply.
‘Well, when Meyrick and I went to Drammen last week we lunched at the Spiraltoppen Restaurant.’ She looked a little embarrassed. ‘I had to go to the lavatory and I was away rather a long time. I had stomach trouble – some kind of diarrhoea.’
McCready grinned. ‘Even Intelligence agents are human,’ he said kindly.
‘When I got back Meyrick was talking to a woman and they seemed to be getting on well together. When I came up she went away.’
‘That’s all?’ asked Carey.
‘That’s all.’
He regarded her thoughtfully. ‘I think there’s something you’re not telling us, Mrs Hansen.’
‘Well, it’s something about Meyrick. I was with him quite a lot during the last few weeks and he gave me the impression of being something of a womanizer – perhaps even a sexual athlete.’
A chuckle escaped from McCready. ‘Did he proposition you?’
‘He had as many arms as an octopus,’ she said. ‘I thought I wasn’t going to last out this operation without being raped. I think he’d go for anything on two legs that wore skirts, with the possible exception of Scotsmen – and I wouldn’t be too sure of that.’
‘Well, well,’ said Carey. ‘How little we know of our fellow men.’
Denison said, ‘He was divorced twice.’
‘So you think this note was to set up an assignation.’
‘Yes,’ said Diana.
‘But Meyrick wouldn’t have fallen for that, no matter how horny he was,’ said Carey. ‘He was too intelligent a man. When you and he went to Drammen last week he checked with me according to instructions. Since you were going with him I gave him the okay.’
‘Did Meyrick know Diana was working for you?’ asked Denison.
Carey shook his head. ‘No – we like to play loose. But Meyrick didn’t find the note.’ He pointed his pipe stem at Denison. ‘You did – and you went to the Spiralen. Tell me, did the men who attacked you give the impression that they wanted to capture or to kill you?’
‘I didn’t stop to ask them,’ said Denison acidly.
‘Um,’ said Carey, and lapsed into thought, his pipe working overtime. After a while he stirred, and said, ‘All right, Mrs Hansen; I think that’s all.’
She nodded briefly and left the room, and Carey glanced at McCready. ‘I suppose we must tell him about Meyrick.’
McCready grinned. ‘I don’t see how you can get out of it.’
‘I have to know,’ said Denison, ‘if I’m going to carry on with this impersonation.’
‘I trust Mrs Hansen and she doesn’t know,’ said Carey. ‘Not the whole story. I work on the “need to know” principle.’ He sighed. ‘I suppose you need to know, so here goes. The first thing to know about Meyrick is that he’s a Finn.’
‘With a name like that?’
‘Oddly enough, it’s his own name. In 1609 the English sent a diplomat to the court of Michael, the first Romanov Czar, to negotiate a trade treaty and to open up the fur trade. The courtiers of James I had to get their bloody ermine somewhere. The name of the diplomat was John Merick – or Meyrick – and he was highly philoprogenitive. He left by-blows all over the Baltic and Harry Meyrick is the end result of that.’
‘It seems that Harry takes after his ancestor,’ commented McCready.
Carey ignored him. ‘Of course, Meyrick’s name was a bit different in Finnish, but when he went to England he reverted to the family name. But that’s by the way.’ He laid down his pipe. ‘More to the point, Meyrick is a Karelian Finn; to be pedantic, if he’d stayed at home in the town where he was born he’d now be a Russian. How good is your modern history?’
‘Average I suppose,’ said Denison.
‘And that means bloody awful,’ observed Carey. ‘All right; in 1939 Russia attacked Finland and the Finns held them off in what was known as the Winter War. In 1941 Germany attacked Russia and the Finns thought it a good opportunity to have another go at the Russkies, which was a pity because that put them on the losing side. Still, it’s difficult to see what else they could have done.
‘At the end of this war, which the Finns know as the Continuation War, there was a peace treaty and the frontier was withdrawn. The old frontier was too close, to Leningrad, which had the Russians edgy. An artilleryman could stand in Finland and lob shells right into the middle of Leningrad, so the Russians took over the whole of the Karelian Isthmus, together with a few other bits and pieces. This put Meyrick’s home town, Enso, on the Russian side, and the Russians renamed it Svetogorsk.’
Carey sucked on his pipe which had gone out. It gurgled unpleasantly. ‘Am I making myself clear?’
‘You’re clear enough,’ said Denison. ‘But I want more than a history lesson.’
‘We’re getting there,’ said Carey. ‘Meyrick was seventeen at the end of the war. Finland was in a hell of a mess; all the Karelian Finns cleared out of the isthmus because they didn’t want to live under the Russians and this put the pressure on the rest of Finland because there was nowhere for them to go. The Finns had to work so bloody hard producing the reparations the Russians demanded that there was no money or men or time left over to build housing. So they turned to the Swedes and asked calmly if they’d take 100,000 immigrants.’ Carey snapped his fingers. ‘Just like that – and the Swedes agreed.’
Denison said, ‘Noble of them.’
Carey nodded. ‘So young Meyrick went to Sweden. He didn’t stay long because he came here, to Oslo, where he lived until he was twenty-four. Then he went to England. He was quite alone all this time – his family had been killed during the war – but as soon as he arrived in England he married his first wife. She had what he needed, which was money.’
‘Who doesn’t need money?’ asked McCready cynically.
‘We’ll get on faster if you stop asking silly questions,’ said Carey. ‘The second thing you have to know about Meyrick is that he’s a bright boy. He has a flair for invention, particularly in electronics, and he has something else which the run-of-the-mill inventor doesn’t have – the ability to turn his inventions into money. The first Mrs Meyrick had a few thousand quid which was all he needed to get started. When they got divorced he’d turned her into a millionairess and he’d made as much for himself. And he went on making it.’
Carey struck a match and applied it to his pipe. ‘By this time he was a big boy as well as a bright boy. He owned a couple of factories and was deep in defence contracts. There’s a lot of his electronics in the Anglo-French Jaguar fighter as well as in Concorde. He also did some bits and pieces for the Chieftain main battle tank. He’s now at the stage where he heads special committees on technical matters concerning defence, and the Prime Minister has pulled him into a Think Tank. He’s a hell of a big boy but the man-in-the-street knows nothing about him. Got the picture?’
‘I think so,’ said Denison. ‘But it doesn’t help me a damn.’
Carey blew a plume of smoke into the air. ‘I think Meyrick inherited his brains from his father, so let’s take a look at the old boy.’
Denison sighed. ‘Must we?’
‘It’s relevant,’ said Carey flatly. ‘Hannu Merikken was a physicist and, by all accounts, a good one. The way the story runs is that if he hadn’t been killed during the war he’d have been in line for the Nobel Prize. The war put a stop to his immediate researches and he went to work for the Finnish government in Viipuri, which was then the second biggest city in Finland. But it’s in Karelia and it’s now a Russian city and the Russians call it Vyborg.’ He looked at Denison’s closed eyes, and said sharply, ‘I trust I’m not boring you.’
‘Go on,’ said Denison. ‘I’m just trying to sort out all these names.’
‘Viipuri was pretty well smashed up during the war, including the laboratory Merikken was working in. So he got the hell out of there and went home to Enso which is about thirty miles north of Viipuri. He knew by this time that no one was going to stop the Russians and he wanted to see to the safety of his papers. He’d done a lot of work before the war which hadn’t been published and he didn’t want to lose it.’
‘So what did he do?’ asked Denison. He was becoming interested.
‘He put all the papers into a metal trunk, sealed it, and buried it in the garden of his house. Young Harri Merikken – that’s our Harry Meyrick – helped him. The next day Hannu Merikken, his wife and his younger son, were killed by the same bomb, and if Harri had been in the house at the same time he’d have been killed, too.’
‘And the papers are important?’ said Denison.
‘They are,’ said Carey soberly. ‘Last year Meyrick was in Sweden and he bumped into a woman who had given him a temporary home when he’d been evacuated from Finland. She said she’d been rummaging about in the attic or whatever and had come across a box he’d left behind. She gave it to him. He opened it in his hotel that night and looked through it. Mostly he was amused by the things he found – the remnants of the enthusiasms of a seventeen-year-old. There were the schematics of a ham radio he’d designed – he was interested in electronics even then – some other drawings of a radio-controlled model aircraft, and things like that. But in the pages of an old radio magazine he found a paper in his father’s handwriting, and that suddenly made the papers buried in Merikken’s garden very important indeed.’
‘What are they about?’ asked Denison.
Carey ignored the question. ‘At first, Meyrick didn’t realize what he’d got hold of and he talked about it to a couple of scientists in Sweden. Then the penny dropped and he bolted back to England and began to talk to the right people – we’re lucky he was big enough to know who to talk to. The people he talked to got interested and, as an end result of a lot of quiet confabulation, I was brought in.’
‘The idea being to go and dig up the garden?’
‘That’s right. The only snag is that the garden is in Russia.’ Carey knocked out his pipe in the ashtray. ‘I have a couple of men scouting the Russian border right now. The idea was that as soon as they report, Meyrick and I would pop across and dig up the papers.’
McCready snapped his fingers. ‘As easy as walking down Piccadilly.’
‘But Meyrick was snatched,’ said Carey. ‘And you were substituted.’
‘Yes,’ said Denison heavily. ‘Why me?’
‘I don’t think we need to go too deeply into that,’ said Carey delicately. He did not want Denison to ruminate about his past life and go off into a fugue. ‘I think it could have been anybody who looked enough like Meyrick to need the least possible surgery.’
There was a whole list of other qualifications – someone who would not be missed too easily, someone who had the right psychological make-up, someone very easily accessible. It had been a job which had been carefully set up in England and back in London there was a team of ten men sifting through the minutiae of Denison’s life in the hope of coming up with a clue to his kidnapping. It was a pity that Denison could not be directly questioned but Harding was dead against it, and Carey had a need for Denison – he did not want an insane man on his hands.
‘Which brings us to the next step,’ said Carey. ‘Someone – call them Crowd X – has pinched Meyrick, but they’re not going to broadcast the fact. They don’t know if we’ve tumbled to the substitution or not – and we’re not going to tell them.’ He looked steadily at Denison. ‘Which is why we need your co-operation, Mr Denison.’
‘In what way?’ asked Denison cautiously.
‘We want you to carry on being Meyrick, and we want you to go to Finland.’
Denison’s jaw dropped. ‘But that’s impossible,’ he said. ‘I’d never get away with it. I can’t speak Finnish.’
‘You’ve got away with it up to now,’ pointed out Carey. ‘You fooled Mrs Hansen and you’re doing very well with Meyrick’s daughter. It’s quite true what Harding said – you’re very competent.’
‘But the language! Meyrick speaks Finnish.’
‘He speaks Finnish, Swedish, Norwegian and English fluently and idiomatically,’ said Carey easily. ‘His French passes but his Italian and Spanish aren’t too hot.’
‘Then how the hell can I get away with it?’ demanded Denison. ‘All I have is English and schoolboy French.’
‘Take it easy. Let me tell you a story.’ Carey began to fill his pipe again. ‘At the end of the First World War quite a number of the British troops married French wives and stayed in France. A lot of them were given jobs by the War Graves Commission – looking after the war cemeteries. Twenty years after, there came another war and another British Expeditionary Force. The new young soldiers found that the old soldiers had completely lost their English – their mother tongue – and could speak only French.’
He struck a match. ‘And that’s what’s going to happen to Meyrick. He hasn’t been back to Finland since he was seventeen; I don’t think it’s unreasonable to suppose he’d lose the language.’
‘But why do you want me? I can’t lead you to the papers – only Meyrick can do that.’
Carey said, ‘When this happened my first impulse was to abandon the operation, but then I started to think about it. Firstly, we don’t know that Meyrick was snatched because of this operation – it might have been for a different reason. In that case the papers are reasonably safe. Secondly, it occurred to me that you could be a good distracting influence – we could use you to confuse the opposition as much as they’ve confused us. If you go to Finland as Meyrick they won’t know what the hell to think. In the ensuing brouhaha we might get a chance at the papers. What do you think?’
‘I think you’re crazy,’ said Denison.
Carey shrugged. ‘Mine is a crazy profession – I’ve seen crazier ploys come off. Look at Major Martin – the man who never was.’
‘He didn’t have to stand up to questioning,’ said Denison. ‘The whole thing is bloody ridiculous.’
‘You’d be paid, of course,’ said Carey casually. ‘Well paid, as a matter of fact. You’d also get a compensatory grant for the injuries that have been done to you, and Mr Ireland is ready and willing to bring you back to normality.’
‘Dr Harding, too?’
‘Dr Harding, too,’ confirmed Carey. He wondered to what extent Denison knew his mental processes to be abnormal.
‘Suppose I turn you down,’ said Denison. ‘Do I still get the services of Iredale and Harding?’
McCready tensed, wondering what Carey would say. Carey placidly blew a smoke ring. ‘Of course.’
‘So it’s not a matter of blackmail,’ said Denison.
The unshockable Carey arranged his features in an expression of shock. ‘There is no question of blackmail,’ he said stiffly.
‘Why are Merikken’s papers so important? What’s in them?’
‘I can’t tell you that, Mr Denison,’ said Carey deliberately.
‘Can’t or won’t?’
Carey shrugged. ‘All right, then – won’t.’
‘Then I’m turning you down,’ said Denison.
Carey put down his pipe. ‘This is a question of state security, Denison; and we work on the principle of “need to know”. Mrs Hansen doesn’t need to know. Ian Armstrong doesn’t need to know. You don’t need to know.’
‘I’ve been kidnapped and stabbed,’ said Denison. ‘My face has been altered and my mind has been jiggered with.’ He raised his hand. ‘Oh, I know that – Harding got that much across – and I’m scared to the marrow about thinking of who I once was. Now you’re asking me to go on with this charade, to go to Finland and put myself in danger again.’ His voice was shaking. ‘And when I ask why you have the gall to tell me I don’t need to know.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Carey.
‘I don’t care how sorry you are. You can book me on a flight to London.’
‘Now who is using blackmail?’ said Carey ironically.
‘It’s a reasonable request,’ said McCready.
‘I know it is, damn it!’ Carey looked at Denison with cold eyes. ‘If you breathe a word of what I’m going to tell you you’ll be behind bars for the rest of your life. I’ll see to that personally. Understand?’
Denison nodded. ‘I’ve still got to know,’ he said stubbornly.
Carey forced the words through reluctant lips. He said slowly, ‘It seems that in 1937 or 1938 Hannu Merikken discovered a way of reflecting X-rays.’
Denison looked at him blankly. ‘Is that all?’
‘That’s all,’ said Carey curtly. He stood up and stretched. ‘It isn’t enough,’ said Denison. ‘What’s so bloody important about that?’
‘You’ve been told what you want to know. Be satisfied.’
‘It isn’t enough. I must know the significance.’
Carey sighed. ‘All right, George; tell him.’
‘I felt like that at first,’ said McCready. ‘Like you, I didn’t see what all the fuss was about. Merikken was doing a bit of pure research when he came across this effect before the war and in those days there wasn’t much use for it. All the uses of X-rays depended upon their penetrative power and who’d want to reflect them. So Merikken filed it away as curious but useless and he didn’t publish a paper on it.’
He grinned. ‘The joke is that now every defence laboratory in the world is working out how to reflect X-rays, but no one has figured out a way to do it.’
‘What happened to make it important?’ asked Denison.
‘The laser happened,’ said Carey in a voice of iron.
‘Do you know how a laser works?’ When Denison shook his head, McCready said, ‘Let’s have a look at the very first laser as it was invented in 1960. It was a rod of synthetic ruby about four inches long and less than half an inch in diameter. One end was silvered to form a reflective surface, and the other end was half-silvered. Coiled around the rod was a spiral gas discharge lamp something like the flash used in photography. Got that?’
‘All clear so far.’
‘There’s a lot more power in these electronic flashes than people imagine,’ said McCready. ‘For instance, an ordinary flash, as used by a professional photographer, develops about 4,000 horse power in the brief fraction of a second when the condensers discharge. The flash used in the early lasers was more powerful than that – let’s call it 20,000 horse power. When the flash is used the light enters the ruby rod and something peculiar happens; the light goes up and down the rod, reflected from the silvered ends, and all the light photons are brought in step with each other. The boffins call that coherent light, unlike ordinary light where all the photons are out of step.
‘Now, because the photons are in step the light pressure builds up. If you can imagine a crowd of men trying to batter down a door, they’re more likely to succeed if they charge at once than if they try singly. The photons are all charging at once and they burst out of the half-silvered end of the rod as a pulse of light – and that light pulse has nearly all the 20,000 horse power of energy that was put into the rod.’
McCready grinned. ‘The boffins had great fun with that. They discovered that it was possible to drill a hole through a razor blade at a range of six feet. At one time it was suggested that the power of a laser should be measured in Gillettes.’
‘Stick to the point,’ said Carey irritably.
‘The military possibilities were easily seen,’ said McCready. ‘You could use a laser as a range-finder, for instance. Fire it at a target and measure the light bouncing back and you could tell the range to an inch. There were other uses – but there was one dispiriting fact. The laser used light and light can be stopped quite easily. It doesn’t take much cloud to stop a beam of light, no matter how powerful it is.’
‘But X-rays are different,’ said Denison thoughtfully.
‘Right! It’s theoretically possible to make an X-ray laser, but for one snag. X-rays penetrate and don’t reflect. No one has found a way of doing it except Merikken who did it before the war – and the working of a laser depends entirely upon multiple reflection.’
Denison rubbed his chin, feeling the flabbiness. Already he was becoming used to it. ‘What would be the use of a gadget like that?’
‘Take a missile coming in at umpteen thousand miles an hour and loaded with an atomic warhead. You’ve got to knock it down so you use another missile like the American Sprint. But you don’t shoot your missile directly at the enemy missile – you aim it at where the enemy will be when your missile gets up there. That takes time to work out and a hell of a lot of computing power. With an X-ray laser you aim directly at the enemy missile because it operates with the speed of light – 186,000 miles a second – and you’d drill a hole right through it.’
‘Balls,’ said Carey. ‘You’d cut the damned thing in two.’
‘My God!’ said Denison. That’s a death ray.’ He frowned. ‘Could it be made powerful enough?’
‘Lasers have come a long way since the first one,’ said McCready soberly. ‘They don’t use the flash any more on the big ones – they pour in the power with a rocket engine. Already they’re up to millions of horse power – but it’s still ordinary light. With X-rays you could knock a satellite out of orbit from the ground.’
‘Now do you understand the significance?’ asked Carey. When Denison nodded, he said, ‘So what are you going to do about it?’
There was a long silence while Denison thought. Carey stood up and went to the window where he looked across to the Studenterlunden, his fingers drumming on the window sill. McCready lay back on the bed with his hands behind his head, and inspected the ceiling closely.
Denison stirred and unclasped his fingers. He straightened in his chair and stretched his arms, then he sighed deeply. My name is Harry Meyrick,’ he said.
THIRTEEN (#ulink_e7b08296-9267-5f51-9043-68511d27ca33)
Three days later Denison, descending for breakfast, bought a newspaper at the kiosk in the lobby and scanned it over coffee. Diana Hansen joined him, and said, ‘What’s new?’
He shrugged. ‘The world is still going to hell in a handcart. Listen to this. Item one. Two more skyjackings, one successful and one not. In the unsuccessful one – God save the mark – two passengers were killed. Item two – pollution. A tanker collision in the Baltic and a fifteen mile oil slick is drifting on to Gotland; the Swedes are understandably acid. Item three. There are strikes in Britain, France and Italy, with consequent riots in London, Paris and Milan. Item four …’ He raised his head. ‘… do you want me to go on?’
She sipped her coffee. ‘You sound a bit acid yourself.’
‘Just how would you feel in my circumstances?’ he asked a little grimly.
Diana shrugged. ‘Where’s Lyn?’
‘The young sleep late.’
‘I have a feeling she’s sharpening her claws, getting ready to scratch my eyes out,’ said Diana meditatively. ‘She’s made one or two odd remarks lately.’ She stretched over and patted Denison’s hand. ‘She thinks her daddy is getting into bad company.’
‘How right the child is.’
‘Child!’ Diana raised her eyebrows. ‘She’s only eight years younger than I am. She’s no child – she’s a healthy young woman with all her wits about her – so watch your step.’
Denison put his head on one side. ‘Of course!’ he said, somewhat surprised. Privately he thought that Diana was drawing the longbow a bit. He put her age at thirty-two which probably meant she was thirty-four; that would give her twelve years on Lyn, not much less than the fourteen years he had himself.
‘Carey wants to see you,’ said Diana. ‘If you leave the hotel, turn left and walk about three hundred yards, you’ll come to a place where they’re building a memorial or something. Be around there at ten o’clock.’
‘All right,’ said Denison.
‘And here’s your darling daughter.’ Diana raised her voice. ‘Good morning, Lyn.’
Denison turned and smiled appreciatively at Lyn’s chic appearance. It’s the money that makes the difference, he thought; the grand ideas of the rulers of the fashion world are apt to look tatty when filtered through the salary of a junior London typist. ‘Did you have a good night?’
‘Fine,’ said Lyn lightly, and sat down. ‘I didn’t expect to see you at breakfast, Mrs Hansen.’ She glanced sideways at Denison. ‘Did you sleep in the hotel last night?’
‘No, darling,’ said Diana sweetly. ‘I brought a message for your father.’
Lyn poured coffee. ‘What are we doing today?’
‘I have a business appointment this morning,’ said Denison. ‘Why don’t you two go shopping?’
A shadow briefly crossed Lyn’s face, but she said, ‘All right.’ Diana’s answering smile was sickly in its sweetness.
Denison found Carey with his rump buttressed by a coping stone and his back to the Royal Palace. He looked up at Denison’s approach and said brusquely, ‘We’re ready to move. Are you fit?’
Carey nodded. ‘How are you getting on with the girl?’
‘I’m tired of being Daddy,’ said Denison bitterly. ‘I’m only getting through by the skin of my teeth. She asks the damnedest questions.’
‘What’s she like?’
‘A nice kid in danger of being spoiled rotten – but for one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Her parents were divorced and it’s messed up her life. I’m beginning to realize what an unmitigated bastard Harry Meyrick is.’ He paused. ‘Or was.’ He looked at Carey. ‘Any news?’
Carey flapped his hand in negation. ‘Tell me more.’
‘Well, the mother is a rich bitch who ignores the girl. I don’t think Lyn would care if she dropped dead tomorrow. But Lyn has always had a respect for her father; she doesn’t like him but she respects him. She looks up to him like a … like a sort of God.’ Denison rubbed his chin and said meditatively, ‘I suppose people respect God, but do they really like him? Anyway, every time she tries to get near Meyrick he slaps her down hard. That’s no way to bring up a daughter and it’s been breaking her up.’
‘I never did like his arrogance myself,’ said Carey. ‘It’s the one thing that would have given you away in the end. You’re not bloody-minded enough to be Meyrick.’
‘Thank God for that,’ said Denison.
‘But you get on with her all right? As Meyrick?’
Denison nodded. ‘So far – but no future guarantees.’
‘I’ve been thinking about her,’ said Carey. ‘Suppose we took her to Finland – what would the opposition think?’
‘For God’s sake!’ said Denison disgustedly.
‘Think about it, man,’ Carey urged. ‘They’d check on her, and when they find out who she is they’d be bloody flummoxed. They might think that if you’re good enough to deceive Meyrick’s daughter you’re good enough to deceive me.’
Denison was acid. ‘That’s not far short of the mark. I had to tell you who I was.’
‘You can do it,’ said Carey. ‘It adds a bit of confusion, and there’s nothing like confusion for creating opportunity. Right now we need all the luck we can create for ourselves. Will you ask her if she’ll go with you to Helsinki tomorrow?’
Denison was troubled. ‘It’s all right for me,’ he said. ‘I’m going into this with my eyes open – but she’s being conned. Will you guarantee her safety?’
‘Of course I will. She’ll be as safe as though she were in England.’
It was a long time before Denison made his decision. ‘All right,’ he said resignedly. ‘I’ll ask her.’
Carey slapped him lightly on the arm. ‘Which brings us back to Meyrick’s character. As you said – he’s a right bastard. Bear that in mind when you’re handling her.’
‘You want her in Finland,’ said Denison. ‘I don’t. If I really act like her father she’s going to run and hide like she always has. Do you want that?’
‘I can’t say I do,’ said Carey. ‘But lean too far the other way and she’ll know you’re not Meyrick.’
Denison thought of the many ways in which he had hurt Lyn by his apparent forgetfulness. As in the case of her mascot, for instance; he had idly picked it up and asked what it was. ‘But you know,’ said Lyn in astonishment. He had incautiously shaken his head, and she burst out, ‘But you named him.’ There was a hurt look in her eyes. ‘You called him Thread-Bear.’
He laughed sourly. ‘Don’t worry; I’m hurting her enough just by being myself.’
‘It’s settled then,’ said Carey. ‘You have an appointment at Helsinki University tomorrow afternoon with Professor Pentti Kääriänen. Your secretary arranged it.’
‘Who the devil is he?’
‘He was one of Hannu Merikken’s assistants before the war. You are to introduce yourself as Merikken’s son and pump him about what Merikken was doing in his laboratory from 1937 to 1939. I want to find out if there’s been any other leakage about his X-ray researches.’ He paused. ‘Take the girl with you; it adds to your cover.’
‘All right.’ Denison gave Carey a level look. ‘And her name is Lyn. She’s not a bloody puppet; she’s a human being.’
Carey’s answering stare was equally unblinking. ‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ he said.
Carey watched Denison walk away and waited until he was joined by McCready. He sighed. ‘Sometimes I have moments of quiet desperation.’
McCready suppressed a smile. ‘What is it this time?’
‘See those buildings over there?’
McCready looked across the road. ‘That scrubby lot?’
‘That’s Victoria Terrace – there’s a police station in there now. The authorities wanted to pull it down but the conservationists objected and won their case on architectural grounds.’
‘I don’t see the point.’
‘Well, you see, it was Gestapo Headquarters during the war and it still smells to a lot of Norwegians.’ He paused. ‘I had a session in there once, with a man called Dieter Brun. Not a nice chap. He was killed towards the end of the war. Someone ran him down with a car.’
McCready was quiet because Carey rarely spoke of his past service. ‘I’ve been running around Scandinavia for nearly forty years – Spitzbergen to the Danish-German border, Bergen to the Russo-Finnish border. I’ll be sixty next month,’ said Carey. ‘And the bloody world hasn’t changed, after all.’ There was a note of quiet melancholy in his voice.
Next morning they all flew to Finland.
FOURTEEN (#ulink_67b8127f-ceb3-5e25-b018-0c9c826175d7)
Lyn Meyrick was worried about her father, which was a new and unwanted experience. Her previous worries in that direction had always been for herself in relation to her father. To worry for her father was something new which gave her an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach.
She had been delighted when he suggested that she accompany him to Finland; a delight compounded by the fact that for the first time he was treating her like a grown-up person. He now asked her opinion and deferred to her wishes in a way he had never done before. Diffidently she had fallen in with his wish that she call him by his given name and she was becoming accustomed to it.
However, the delight had been qualified by the presence of Diana Hansen who somehow destroyed that adult feeling and made her feel young and gawky like a schoolgirl. The relationship between Diana and her father puzzled her. At first she had thought they were lovers and had been neither surprised nor shocked. Well, not too shocked. Her father was a man and not all that old, and her mother had not been reticent about the reasons for the divorce. And, yet, she had not thought that Diana Hansen would have been the type to appeal to her father and the relationship seemed oddly cold and almost businesslike.
And there were other things about him that were strange. He would become abstract and remote. This was nothing new because he had always had that ability to switch off in the middle of a conversation which made her feel as though he had dropped a barrier to cut her off. What was new was that he would snap out of these abstracted moments and smile at her in a way he never had before, which made her heart turn over. And he seemed deliberately to put himself out to please her.
And he was losing his memory, too. Not about anything big or important, but about minor things like … like Thread-Bear, for instance. How could a man forget a pun which had caused so much excitement in a little girl? If there was anything about her father that had annoyed her in the past it was his memory for detail – he usually remembered too much for her comfort. It was all very odd.
Anyway, she was glad he had invited her to go to the University to meet the man with the unpronounceable name. He had been hesitant about it, and she said, ‘Why are you going?’
‘It’s just that I want to find out something about my father.’
‘But that’s my grandfather,’ she said. ‘Of course I’m coming.’
It seemed strange to have a grandfather called Hannu Merikken. She sat before the mirror and contemplated herself, making sure that all was in order. I’m not bad-looking, she thought, as she regarded the straight black eyebrows and the grey eyes. Mouth too big, of course. I’m no raving beauty, but I’ll do.
She snatched up her bag and went to the door on the way to meet her father. Then she stopped in mid-pace and thought, What am I thinking of? It’s my father … not … She shook the thought from her and opened the door.
Professor Kääriänen was a jolly, chubby-faced man of about sixty, not at all the dry professorial stick Lyn had imagined. He rose from his desk to greet Denison, and shot out a spate of Finnish. Denison held up his hand in protest: ‘I’m sorry; I have no Finnish.’
Kääriänen raised his eyebrows and said in English, ‘Remarkable!’
Denison shrugged. ‘Is it? I left when I was seventeen. I suppose I spoke Finnish for fifteen years – and I haven’t spoken it for nearly thirty.’ He smiled. ‘You might say my Finnish language muscle has atrophied.’
Kääriänen nodded understandably. ‘Yes, yes; my own German was once quite fluent – but now?’ He spread his hands. ‘So you are Hannu Merikken’s son.’
‘Allow me to introduce my daughter, Lyn.’
Kääriänen came forward, his hands outstretched. ‘And his granddaughter – a great honour. But sit down, please. Would you like coffee?’
‘Thank you; that would be very nice.’
Kääriänen went to the door, spoke to the girl in the other office, and then came back. ‘Your father was a great man, Dr … er … Meyrick.’
Denison nodded. ‘That is my name now. I reverted to the old family name.’
The professor laughed. ‘Ah, yes; I well remember Hannu telling me the story. He made it sound so romantic. And what are you doing here in Finland, Dr Meyrick?’
‘I don’t really know,’ said Denison cautiously. ‘Perhaps it’s a need to get back to my origins. A delayed homesickness, if you like.’
‘I understand,’ said Kääriänen. ‘And you want to know something about your father – that’s why you’ve come to me?’
‘I understand you worked with him – before the war.’
‘I did, much to my own profit. Your father was not only a great research worker – he was also a great teacher. But I was not the only one. There were four of us, as I remember. You should remember that.’
‘I was very young before the war,’ said Denison defensively. ‘Not even into my teens.’
‘And you don’t remember me,’ said Kääriänen, his eyes twinkling. His hand patted his plump belly. ‘I’m not surprised; I’ve changed quite a lot. But I remember you. You were a young rascal – you upset one of my experiments.’
Denison smiled. ‘If guilty I plead sorrow.’
‘Yes,’ said Kääriänen reminiscently. ‘There were four of us with your father in those days. We made a good team.’ He frowned. ‘You know; I think I am the only one left.’ He ticked them off with his fingers. ‘Olavi Koivisto joined the army and was killed. Liisa Linnankivi – she was also killed in the bombing of Viipuri; that was just before your father died, of course. Kaj Salojärvi survived the war; he died three years ago – cancer, poor fellow. Yes, there is only me left of the old team.’
‘Did you all work together on the same projects?’
‘Sometimes yes, sometimes no.’ Kääriänen leaned forward. ‘Sometimes we worked on our own projects with Hannu giving advice. As a scientist yourself, Dr Meyrick, you will understand the work of the laboratory.’
Denison nodded. ‘What was the main trend of my father’s thought in those days before the war?’
Kääriänen spread his hands. ‘What else but the atom? We were all thinking about the atom. Those were the great pioneering days, you know; it was very exciting.’ He paused, and added drily, ‘Not long after that, of course, it became too exciting, but by that time no one in Finland had time to think about the atom.’
He clasped his hands across his belly. ‘I well remember the time Hannu showed me a paper written by Meitner and Frisch interpreting Hahn’s experiments. The paper showed clearly that a chain reaction could take place and that the generation of atomic energy was clearly possible. We were all excited – you cannot imagine the excitement – and all our work was put aside to concentrate on this new thing.’ He shrugged heavily. ‘But that was 1939 – the year of the Winter War. No time for frivolities like atoms.’ His tone was sardonic.
‘What was my father working on when this happened?’
‘Ah – here is the coffee,’ said Kääriänen. He fussed about with the coffee, and offered small cakes to Lyn. ‘And what do you do, young lady? Are you a scientist like your father and your grandfather?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Lyn politely. ‘I’m a teacher.’
‘We must have the teachers, too,’ said Kääriänen. ‘What was that you asked, Doctor?’
‘I was wondering what my father was working on at the time he read the paper on atomic fission.’
‘Ah, yes,’ the professor said vaguely, and waved his hand a little helplessly. ‘It was a long time ago, you know; so much has happened since – it is difficult to remember.’ He picked up a cake and was about to bite into it when he said, ‘I remember – it was something to do with some aspects of the properties of X-rays.’
‘Did you work on that project?’
‘No – that would be Liisa – or was it Olavi?’
‘So you don’t know the nature of the work he was doing?’
‘No.’ Kääriänen’s face broke into a smile, and he shook with laughter. ‘But, knowing your father, I can tell you it had no practical application. He was very proud of being a pure research physicist. We were all like that in those days – proud of being uncontaminated by the world.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘A pity we’re not like that now.’
The next hour and a half was spent in reminiscences from Kääriänen interspersed with Denison’s desperate ploys to fend off his inquiries into Meyrick’s work. After allowing what he thought was a decent time he excused himself and he and Lyn took their leave of the professor with assurances that they would keep in professional contact.
They came out into Senate Square and made their way back to the hotel along Aleksanterinkatu, Helsinki’s equivalent of Bond Street. Lyn was thoughtful and quiet, and Denison said, ‘A penny for your thoughts.’
‘I was just thinking,’ she said. ‘It seemed at one time as though you were pumping Professor Kääriänen.’
Did it, by God! thought Denison. You’re too bloody smart by half. Aloud he said, ‘I just wanted to know about my father, the work he did and so on.’
‘You didn’t give much back,’ said Lyn tartly. ‘Every time he asked a question you evaded it.’
‘I had to,’ said Denison. ‘Most of my work is in defence. I can’t babble about that in a foreign country.’
‘Of course,’ said Lyn colourlessly.
They were outside a jeweller’s shop and Denison pointed. ‘What do you think of that?’
She caught her breath. ‘Oh, it’s beautiful!’
It was a necklace – chunky, rough-hewn gold of an intricate and yet natural shape. He felt reckless and took her arm. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Inside.’
The necklace cost him £215 of Meyrick’s money which he paid by credit card. Apart from the fact that he thought that Meyrick ought to pay more attention to his daughter he thought it would take her mind off other things.
‘Your birthday present,’ he said.
Lyn was breathless with excitement. ‘Oh, thank you, Da … Harry.’ Impulsively she kissed him. ‘But I have nothing to wear with it.’
‘Then you’ll have to buy something, won’t you? Let’s go back to the hotel.’
‘Yes, let’s.’ She slipped her fingers into his. ‘I have a surprise for you, too – at the hotel.’
‘Oh? What is it?’
‘Well, I thought that now you’re back in Finland you ought to become reacquainted with the sauna.’
He laughed, and said cheerfully, ‘I’ve never been to a sauna in my life.’
She stopped dead on the pavement and stared at him. ‘But you must have. When you were a boy.’
‘Oh, yes; I went then.’ He cursed himself for the slip. Carey had given him books to read about Finland; language was one thing but there was a minimum any Finn would know, expatriate or not. The sauna definitely fitted into that category. ‘I tend to regard my years in Finland as another life.’ It was lame but it would have to do.
‘It’s about time you were reintroduced to the sauna,’ she said firmly. ‘I go often in London – it’s great fun. I’ve booked for us both in the hotel sauna for six o’clock.’
‘Great!’ he said hollowly.
FIFTEEN (#ulink_bc89d903-7ac8-5422-bd9a-5c4d43cd6487)
In the hotel he escaped to his room and rang the number he had been given. When Carey answered he gave a report on his interview with Kääriänen, and Carey said, ‘So it all comes to this: Merikken was working on X-rays at the time but no one can remember exactly what he was doing. Those who would know are dead. That’s encouraging.’
‘Yes,’ said Denison.
‘You don’t sound pleased,’ said Carey.
‘It’s not that. I have something else on my mind.’
‘Out with it.’
‘Lyn has booked me in for the sauna this evening.’
‘So?’
‘She’s booked us both in.’
‘So?’ There was a pause before Carey chuckled. ‘My boy; I can see you have a wrong impression or an evil mind. This is not Hamburg nor is it the lower reaches of Soho; you’re in Helsinki and the Finns are a decent people. I think you’ll find there is one sauna for gentlemen and another for ladies.’
‘Oh!’ said Denison weakly. ‘It’s just that I don’t know much about it. One gets the wrong impression.’
‘Didn’t you read the books I gave you?’
‘I must have missed that one.’
‘In any case, there’s nothing wrong with a father joining his daughter in the sauna,’ said Carey judicially. ‘It may be done in your own home but not, I think, in an international hotel.’ He paused. ‘You’d better read up on it. Meyrick wouldn’t have forgotten the sauna – no Finn would.’
‘I’ll do that.’
‘Have fun,’ said Carey, and rang off.
Denison put down the telephone and rummaged in his suitcase where he found a slim book on the sauna written for the benefit of English-speaking visitors to Finland. On studying it he was relieved to find that the sauna appeared to be little more than a Turkish bath in essence – with differences.
He turned back the pages and read the introduction. There was, apparently, one sauna for every six Finns which, he reflected, was probably a greater incidence than bathrooms in Britain. A clean people, the Finns – mens sana in corpore sauna. Stones were heated by birch logs or, in modern times, by electric elements. Humidity was introduced by löyly – tossing water on the stones. The booklet managed to convey an air of mystic ritual about what was essentially a prosaic activity, and Denison came to the conclusion that the sauna was the Finnish equivalent of the Japanese tea ceremony.
At quarter to six Lyn rang him. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘I’ll meet you afterwards in the swimming pool. Have you got your trunks?’
Denison mentally ran down a checklist of Meyrick’s clothing. ‘Yes.’
‘At half past six, then.’ She rang off.
He went up to the top floor of the hotel, found the sauna for men, and went into the change room where he took his time, taking his cue from the others who were there. He stripped and went into the ante-chamber to the sauna where he showered and then took a square of towelling from a pile and went into the sauna itself.
It was hot.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a man lay his towel on a slatted, wooden bench and sit on it, so he followed suit. The wood beneath his feet was almost unbearably hot and sweat was already beginning to start from his skin. A man left the sauna and another took a bucket of water and sluiced it along the wood on which his feet were resting. Tendrils of steam arose but his feet were cooler.
Another man left the sauna and Denison turned and found a thermometer on the wall by his head. It registered 115 degrees. Not too bad, he thought; I can stand that. Then he looked again and saw that the thermometer was calibrated in degrees Celsius. Christ Almighty! Water boils at 100°C.
He blinked the sweat out of his eyes and turned his head to find that there was just himself and another man left – a broad-shouldered, deep-chested man, shaggy with hair. The man picked up a wooden dipper and filled it with water from a bucket. He paused with it in his hand, and said interrogatively, ‘Löylyä?’
Denison answered with one of the few Finnish words he had picked up. ‘Kiitos.’
The man tossed the dipperful of water on to the square tub of hot stones in the corner. A blast of heat hit Denison like a physical blow and he gasped involuntarily. The man shot a sudden spate of Finnish at him, and Denison shook his head. ‘I’m sorry; I have no Finnish.’
‘Ah; first time in Finland?’
‘Yes,’ said Denison, and added, ‘since I was a boy.’
The man nodded. A sheen of sweat covered his hairy torso. He grinned. ‘First time in sauna?’
Sweat dripped from Denison’s nose. ‘For a long time – many years.’
The man nodded and rose. He picked up the dipper again and, turning away from Denison, he filled it from the bucket, Denison gritted his teeth. Anything a bloody Finn can stand, I can; he thought.
With a casual flick of the wrist the man tossed the water on to the hot stones, then quickly went out of the sauna, slamming the door behind him. Again the wave of heat hit Denison, rising to an almost intolerable level so that he gasped and spluttered. A bloody practical joker – baiting a beginner!
He felt his head swim and tried to stand up but found that his legs had gone rubbery beneath him. He rolled off the top bench and tried to crawl to the door and felt the hot wood burning his hands. Darkness closed in on him and the last thing he saw was his own hand groping for the door handle before he collapsed and passed out.
He did not see the door open, nor did he feel himself being lifted up and carried out.
SIXTEEN (#ulink_fa7a7ccd-6da2-5fd7-8635-31f577f19d39)
He awoke to darkness.
For a long time he just lay there, unable to think because of the throbbing pain in his head. Then his head cleared a little and he stirred and knew he was lying on a bed. When he moved he heard a metallic clinking noise. He moved again and became aware that he was naked, and a recollection of the sauna came back.
His first thought was that he had collapsed of heat prostration and had been taken to his own room, but when he lifted his hand that theory disintegrated quickly. There was a tug on both wrists and he felt cold metal, and when he twisted his hands around he heard that clinking sound again and felt the handcuffs.
He lay quiet for a while before he levered himself up on one elbow to stare into the blackness, then he swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. Tentatively he moved his feet apart; at least they were not manacled and he could walk. But walk where? He held his arms out before him and moved them sideways, first to the left and then to the right, until he encountered an object. It was flat with square edges and he concluded it was a bedside table. Exploring the top brought no joy; there was nothing on it.
Although his headache had eased he felt as weak as a kitten and he sat for a few moments to conserve his strength. Whether his weakness was a natural result of the heat of the sauna was debatable. He reasoned that if the sauna did that to everyone then it would not be so popular in Finland. Apart from that, he had no idea of how long he had been unconscious. He felt his skin and found it cool and with no moisture.
After a while he stood up with his arms out in front of him and began to shuffle forward. He had gone only a few feet when he stubbed his toe on something and the pain was agonizing. ‘Damn!’ he said viciously, and stepped back until he felt the bed behind his legs. He sat down and nursed his foot.
A sound came from the other side of the room and he saw a patch of greyness, quickly obscured and vanishing. A light suddenly stabbed at him and he blinked and screwed up his eyes against the sudden glare. A voice said in accented English, ‘So Dr Meyrick is awake – and up, too.’
Denison brought up his hands before his eyes. The voice said sharply, ‘Don’t move, Meyrick. Stay on the bed.’ Then, more coolly, ‘Do you know what this is?’
The lamp dipped a little so that he could see the vague outline of a man in back-reflected light. He saw the glint of metal in an out-thrust hand. ‘Well?’ said the voice impatiently. ‘What is it, Meyrick?’
Denison’s voice was hoarse. ‘A pistol.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’d like to know what the hell this is all about.’
The voice was amused. ‘No doubt you would.’ As Denison tried to sort out the accent the light played over him. ‘I see you’ve hurt your side, Dr Meyrick. How did that happen?’
‘A pack of maniacs attacked me in Norway. They seem to have the same breed in Finland, too.’
‘Poor Dr Meyrick,’ mocked the voice. ‘You seem to be continually in trouble. Did you report it to the police?’
‘Of course I did. What else would you expect me to do? And to the British Embassy in Oslo.’ He remembered what Carey had said about Meyrick’s bloody-mindedness, and added irascibly, ‘Bloody incompetents – the lot of them.’
‘Who did you see at the Embassy?’
‘A man called McCready picked me up at the police station and took me to the Embassy. Look, I’ve had enough of this. I’m answering no more questions. None at all.’
The pistol moved languidly. ‘Yes, you will. Did you meet Carey?’
‘No.’
‘You’re a liar.’
‘If you think you know the answers, why ask me the questions? I don’t know anyone called Carey.’
A sigh came out of the darkness. ‘Meyrick, I think you ought to know that we have your daughter.’
Denison tensed, but sat quietly. After a moment he said, ‘Prove it.’
‘Nothing easier.’ The pistol withdrew slowly. ‘Tape recorders are made conveniently small these days, are they not?’ There was a click and a slight hissing noise in the darkness beyond the flashlight, then a man spoke:
‘Now tell me; what’s your father doing here in Finland?’
‘He’s on holiday.’
That was Lyn’s clear voice. Denison recognized it in spite of the slight distortion which was far less than that of a telephone.
‘Did he tell you that?’
‘Who else would tell me?’ She sounded amused.
‘But he went to see Professor Kääriänen this afternoon. That sounds more like business than pleasure.’
‘He wanted to find out something about his father – my grandfather.’
‘What did he want to find out?’
There was a raw silence, then the man said, ‘Come now, Miss Meyrick; nothing will happen, either to you or to your father, if you answer my questions. I assure you that you will be released unharmed.’
A switch snapped and the voices stopped. From the darkness: ‘You see, Dr Meyrick! Of course, I cannot guarantee the truthfulness of my friend regarding his last statement.’ The pistol reappeared, glinting in the light. ‘Now, to return to Mr Carey – what did he have to say?’
‘He hauled me over the coals for being in a road accident,’ said Denison.
The voice sharpened. ‘You can do better than that. Now, having put you and Carey together, I want to know just what you’re doing here in Finland. I want it truthfully, and I want it quickly. And you’d better start thinking seriously of your daughter’s health.’ The gun jerked. ‘Talk!’
Denison was never more conscious of the disadvantages of being naked; it took the pith out of a man. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘We’re here to see the Finnish government.’
‘What about?’
‘A defence project.’
‘Who in the government?’
‘Not really the government,’ said Denison inventively. ‘Someone in the army – in military intelligence.’
‘The name?’ When Denison was silent the gun jerked impatiently. ‘The name, Meyrick.’
Denison was hastily trying to slap together a name that sounded even remotely Finnish. ‘Saarinen.’
‘He’s an architect.’
‘Not this one – this one’s a colonel,’ said Denison, hoping it was a rank in the Finnish army. He was listening intently but heard no sound other than an occasional rustle of clothing from the other side of the bright light.
‘What’s the project?’
‘Electronic espionage – equipment for monitoring Russian broadcasts, especially on military wavelengths.’
There was a long silence. ‘I suppose you know that this is already done.’
‘Not the way I do it,’ said Denison.
‘All right; how do you do it? And let’s not have me extract answers like pulling teeth or that girl of yours might have some of her teeth pulled.’
‘I invented an automatic decoder,’ said Denison. A barrier broke in his mind and a wave of panic and terror swept over him. He felt sweat trickle down his chest and then deliberately pushed the panic back where it had come from – but he retained the words that had come with it.
‘It’s a stochastic process,’ he said, not even knowing what the word meant. ‘A development of the Monte Carlo method. The Russian output is repeatedly sampled and put through a series of transformations at random. Each transformation is compared with a store held in a computer memory – if a match is made a tree branching takes place leading to a further set of transformations. There are a lot of dead ends and it needs a big, fast computer – very powerful.’
The sweat poured off him. He had not understood a word of what he had said.
‘I got most of that,’ said the voice, and Denison thought he detected a touch of awe. ‘You invented this thing?’
‘I developed the circuits and helped with the programming,’ said Denison sullenly.
‘There’s one thing I don’t understand – and this I really have to know. Why give it to the Finns?’
‘We didn’t,’ said Denison. ‘They gave it to us. They developed the basics. They didn’t have the resources to follow up, so they gave it to us.’
‘Professor Kääriänen?’
‘Look,’ said Denison. ‘Let me hear that tape again.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m not saying another bloody word until I hear it,’ said Denison stubbornly.
A pause. ‘All right; here’s a re-run.’
The gun vanished and there was a click.
‘Now tell me; what’s your father doing here in Finland?’
‘He’s on holiday.’
Denison strained his ears as he listened to the conversation and evaluated the voices. He raised his hands and slowly parted them so that the link of the handcuffs tightened.
‘He wanted to find out something about his father – my grandfather.’
‘What did he want to find out?’ A pause. ‘Come now, Miss Meyrick; nothing will happen, either to you or to your father, if you ans …’
Denison lunged, moving fast. He had moved his legs under the bed, so that when he moved he was on the balls of his feet and utilizing the maximum thrust of his thighs. His hands were as wide apart as he could spread them and he rammed them forward as though to grab the man by the ears. The link between the handcuffs caught the man right across the larynx.
Both tape recorder and flashlight dropped to the floor; the flashlight rolled, sending grotesque shadows about the room, and the recorder babbled. Denison kept up his pressure on the man’s throat and was aware of cloth as he pressed his hands to his opponent’s face. In the shifting light he saw the glint of metal as the man raised the pistol from his pocket and he twisted his hand frantically and managed to grab the wrist as it came up.
With his left hand holding firmly on to his opponent’s right wrist he thrust firmly so that the steel link cut into the man’s throat. The gun was thus held close to the man’s right ear, and when it went off with a blinding flare and a deafening explosion the man reeled away and dropped it.
Denison dived for it and came up again quickly. The door banged closed and the recorder chattered insanely. He made for the door and opened it, to find himself in a narrow corridor with another door at the end. As he ran for it he heard Diana Hansen say, from behind him, ‘ Lyn, if you take this attitude it will be the worse for you.’
He heard the words but they made little sense and he had no time to evaluate them. He burst through the door and found himself in the brightly lit hotel corridor. There was no one to be seen, so he ran to the corner where the corridor turned and came to the lifts, and skidded to a halt in front of an astonished couple in evening dress. One lift was going down.
He made for the stairs, hearing a startled scream from behind him, and ran down two flights of stairs, causing quite a commotion as he emerged into the lobby yelling for the police and wearing nothing but a pair of handcuffs and an automatic pistol.
SEVENTEEN (#ulink_88dd9192-7816-5208-94b4-c6939e1594f0)
‘Incredible!’ said Carey. His voice was dead as though he, himself, did not believe what he was saying, and the single word made no echo in the quiet room.
‘That’s what happened,’ said Denison simply.
McCready stirred. ‘It would seem that more than water was thrown on to the hot stones in the sauna.’
‘Yes,’ said Carey. ‘I have heard that some Finns, in an experimental mood, have used koskenkorva as Iöylyä.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Denison.
‘A sort of Finnish vodka.’ Carey put down his dead pipe. ‘I dare say some smart chemist could come up with a vaporizing knock-out mixture. I accept that.’ He frowned and shook his head. ‘Could you repeat what you told this fellow about your bloody decoder?’
‘It’s engraved on my memory,’ said Denison bitterly. ‘I said, “It’s a stochastic process – a development of the Monte Carlo method. The Russian output is repeatedly sampled and put through a series of transformations at random. Each transformation is compared with a store held in a computer memory – if a match is made a tree branching takes place leading to a further set of transformations. There are a lot of dead ends and it needs a big, fast computer – very powerful.”’
‘It would,’ said Carey drily.
‘I don’t even know what stochastic means,’ said Denison helplessly.
Carey took a smoker’s compendium from his pocket and began to clean his pipe, making a dry scraping sound. ‘I know what it means. A stochastic process has an element of probability in it. The Monte Carlo method was first devised as a means of predicting the rate of diffusion of uranium hexafluoride through a porous barrier – it’s been put to other uses since.’
‘But I don’t know anything about that,’ expostulated Denison.
‘Apparently you do,’ said Carey. ‘If you thought you were talking gobbledegook you were wrong. It would make sense to a mathematician or a computer man. And you were right about something else; you’d need a bloody powerful computer to handle it – the transformations would run into millions for even a short message. In fact, I don’t think there is that kind of a computer, unless the programming method is equally powerful.’
Denison developed the shakes. ‘Was I a mathematician? Did I work on computers?’ he whispered.
‘No,’ said Carey levelly. ‘What did you think you were doing when you reeled off all that stuff?’
‘I was spinning a yarn – I couldn’t tell him why we were really here.’
McCready leaned forward. ‘What did you feel like when you were spouting like that?’
‘I was scared to death,’ confessed Denison.
‘Of the man?’
There was violence in Denison’s headshake. ‘Not of the man – of myself. What was in me.’ His hands began to quiver again.
Carey caught McCready’s eye and shook his head slightly; that line of questioning was too dangerous for Denison. He said, ‘We’ll leave that for a moment and move on. You say this chap accepted you as Meyrick?’
‘He didn’t question it.’
‘What made you go for him? That was a brave thing to do when he had a gun.’
‘He wasn’t holding the gun,’ said Denison. ‘He was holding the recorder. I suddenly tumbled to it that the recording was a fake. The threatening bit at the end had a different quality – a dead sound. All the other stuff was just ordinary conversation and could have happened quite naturally. It followed that this chap couldn’t have Lyn, and that left me free to act.’
‘Quite logical,’ said Carey. ‘And quite right.’ There was a bemused look on his face as he muttered to himself, ‘Competent!’
McCready said, ‘Lyn was in the hotel lounge yesterday afternoon and a chap sat at the table and began to pump her. Either the flower pot or the ashtray was bugged and the conversation recorded. Diana Hansen was around and caught on to what was happening and butted in, spoiling the game. Of course, she didn’t know about the bug at the time.’
A look of comprehension came over Denison’s face. ‘I heard Diana’s voice on the tape. She was threatening Lyn, too.’
McCready grinned. ‘When this character was foiled he went away, and Diana and Lyn had a row. The bug was still there so that, too, was picked up on the tape. It seems that your daughter is trying to protect her father against the wiles of a wicked woman of the world.’
‘Oh, no!’ moaned Denison.
‘You’ll have to come the heavy father,’ McCready advised.
‘Does Lyn know what happened?’
Carey grunted and glanced at his watch. ‘Six in the morning – she’ll still be asleep. When you went missing I had Mrs Hansen tell her that the two of you were going on the town and you’d be late back. I didn’t want her alarmed.’
‘She’s certain to find out,’ said McCready. ‘This is too good a story to suppress – the eminent Dr Meyrick capering in the lobby of the city’s best hotel as naked as the day he was born and waving a gun. Impossible to keep out of the papers.’
‘Why in hell did you do it?’ demanded Carey. ‘You were bawling for the police, too.’
‘I thought I could catch the chap,’ said Denison. ‘When I didn’t I thought of what Meyrick would have done – the real Meyrick. If an innocent man is threatened with a gun the first thing he does is to yell for the coppers. An innocent Meyrick would be bloody outraged – so I blew my top in the hotel lobby.’
‘Still logical,’ muttered Carey. He raised his voice. ‘All right; the man in the sauna. Description?’
‘He was hairy – he had a pelt like a bear.’
‘I don’t care if he was as hairy as Esau,’ said Carey caustically. ‘We can’t go stripping the clothes off suspects to find how hairy they are. His face, man!’
‘Brown eyes,’ said Denison tiredly. ‘Square face – a bit battered. Nose on one side. Dimple in chin.’
‘That’s the bloke who was quizzing Lyn Meyrick,’ said McCready.
‘The other man – the one with the gun.’
‘I never saw him,’ said Denison. ‘The room was darkened and when I got my hands on him I found he was wearing some kind of a mask. But I …’ He stopped on a doubtful note.
‘Carry on,’ said Carey encouragingly.
‘He spoke English but with an accent.’
‘What sort of accent?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Denison desperately. ‘Call it a generalized middle-European accent. The thing is that I think I’ve heard the voice before.’
At that, Carey proceeded to put Denison through the wringer. Fifteen minutes later Denison yelled, ‘I tell you I don’t know.’ He put his head in his hands. ‘I’m tired.’
Carey stood up. ‘All right; you can go to bed. We’ll let you sleep, but I can’t answer for the local cops – they’ll want to see you again. Got your story ready?’
‘Just the truth.’
‘I’d leave out that bit about the decoder you invented,’ advised Carey. ‘It’s a bit too much.’ He jerked his head at McCready. ‘Come on, George.’
They left Denison to his bed. In the lift Carey passed his hand over his face. ‘I didn’t think this job would call for so many sleepless nights.’
‘Let’s find some coffee,’ proposed McCready. ‘There’s sure to be an early morning place open by now.’
They left the hotel in silence and walked along Manner-heimintie. The street was quiet with only the occasional taxi and the odd cyclist on his way to an early start at work. Carey said suddenly, ‘Denison worries me.’
‘You mean that stuff he came out with?’
‘What the hell else?’ The corners of Carey’s mouth turned down. ‘And more – but principally that. A man like Meyrick might design just such a contraption – but where did Denison get it from?’
‘I’ve been thinking about it,’ said McCready. His voice was careful. ‘Have you considered the possibility of a double shuffle?’
Carey broke stride. ‘Speak plainly.’
‘Well, here we have a man whom we think is Denison. His past is blocked out and every time he tries to probe it he breaks into a muck sweat. You saw that.’
‘Well?’
‘But supposing he really is Meyrick – also with the past blocked out – who only thinks he’s Denison. Harding said it was possible. Then anything brought out of the past in an emergency would be pure Meyrick.’
Carey groaned. ‘What a bloody roundabout to be on.’ He shook his head decisively. ‘That won’t wear. Iredale said he wasn’t Meyrick.’
‘No, he didn’t,’ said McCready softly. ‘I can quote his exact words. Iredale said, “He’s not Meyrick – not unless Meyrick has had plastic surgery recently.”’
Carey thought that out. ‘Stop trying to confuse me. That would mean that the man we had in the hotel in Oslo for three weeks was not Meyrick – that the ringer was the other way round.’
He stopped dead on the pavement. ‘Look, George; let’s get one thing quite clear.’ He stabbed a finger back at the hotel. ‘That man there is not Meyrick. I know Meyrick – he fights with his tongue and uses sarcasm as a weapon, but if you put him in a real fight he’d collapse. Denison is a quiet-spoken, civil man who, in an emergency, seems to have the instincts of a born killer. He’s the antithesis of Meyrick. Ram that into your mind and hold on to it fast.’
McCready shrugged. ‘It leaves a lot to be explained.’
‘It will be explained. I want Giles Denison sorted out once and for all back in London. I want his life sifted day by day and minute by minute, if necessary, to find out how he knows that mathematical jargon. And I want Harding brought here tout de suite.’
‘He’ll like that,’ said McCready sardonically. ‘I’ll pass the word on.’
They walked for another hundred yards and McCready said, ‘Denison is quite a boy. Who else would think of handcuffs as a weapon?’ He chuckled. ‘I think he’s neither Meyrick nor Denison – I think he’s Clark Kent.’
Carey’s jaw dropped. ‘And who the blazes is that?’
‘Superman,’ said McCready blandly.
EIGHTEEN (#ulink_732d0b06-9d0d-5392-b669-4c51c12ccfbf)
Denison slept, was interviewed by the police, and slept again. He got up at four, bathed and dressed, and went downstairs. Crossing the lobby he saw the receptionist stare at him, then turn and say something to the porter with a smile. Dr H. F. Meyrick was evidently the hotel celebrity.
He looked into the lounge, saw no one he knew, and then investigated the bar where he found Diana Hansen sitting at a table and reading a paperback. She looked up as he stood over her. ‘I was wondering when you’d show.’
‘I had to get some sleep. Yesterday was a bit wearing.’ He sat down and picked up the ashtray to inspect its underside.
Diana laughed. ‘No bugs – I checked.’
He put it down. ‘Where’s Lyn?’
‘Out.’ At his raised eyebrows she elaborated slightly. ‘Sightseeing.’
A waiter came up. ‘Mittö otatte?’
‘A olutta, olkaa hyvä,’ said Denison. He looked at Diana. ‘And you?’
‘Nothing for me,’ she said. ‘Your Finnish is improving.’
‘Only enough to order the necessities of life. Has Carey come to any conclusions about yesterday?’
‘Carey isn’t here,’ she said. ‘I’m to tell you to sit tight until he comes back.’
‘Where is he?’
‘He’s gone to Sweden.’
‘Sweden!’ His eyes were blank. ‘Why has he gone there?’
‘He didn’t tell me.’ She stood up and picked up her book. ‘Now that I’ve passed on the word I’ll get about my business.’ Her lips quirked. ‘Don’t take any wooden saunas.’
‘Never again,’ he said fervently. He bit his lip. ‘But they might take another crack at me.’
‘Not to worry,’ she said. ‘You’re under Ian Armstrong’s eye, and he’s well named. He’s sitting at the bar now. Don’t acknowledge him – and don’t move so fast he can’t keep up with you.’
She went away as the waiter came up with his beer. He drank it moodily and ordered another bottle. Over at the bar Armstrong was making a single beer stretch a long way. Why Sweden? What could possibly have happened there to drag Carey away? No answer came.
He was half-way through the second bottle when Lyn entered the bar. She sat at his table and looked at his beer. ‘You look dissipated.’
He grinned at her. ‘I feel dissipated. I was up late.’
‘So I’m told,’ she said unsmilingly. ‘I heard a strange story this morning – about you.’
He regarded her warily and decided to riposte. ‘And I’ve heard something pretty odd about you. Why did you quarrel with Diana?’
Pink spots came into her cheeks. ‘So she told you.’
‘She didn’t say anything about it,’ said Denison truthfully.
Lyn flared up. ‘Then who did if she didn’t? We were alone.’ She tugged viciously at the strap of her bag and looked down at the table. ‘It doesn’t feel nice to be ashamed of one’s own father. I never really believed anything Mother said about you, but now I can see she was telling the truth.’
‘Calm down,’ he said. ‘Have a drink. What will you have? A Coca-Cola?’
Her chin came up. ‘A dry Martini.’
He signalled to the waiter, suppressing a smile, and gave the order. When the waiter had gone, she said, ‘It was disgusting of you.’
‘What’s so disgusting about Diana Hansen?’
‘You know what I mean. I’ve heard the jet set gets up to some queer things but, my God, I didn’t expect it of you. Not my own father.’ Her eyes were unnaturally bright.
‘No, I don’t know what you mean. What am I supposed to have done?’ he asked plaintively.
A hurt look came into her eyes. ‘I know you went out with that woman last night because she told me so. And I know how you came back, too. You must have been disgustingly drunk to do that. Did she have any clothes on? No wonder they had to send for the police.’
‘Oh, my God!’ said Denison, appalled. ‘Lyn, it wasn’t like that.’
‘Then why is everyone talking about it? I heard it at breakfast this morning. There were some Americans at the next table – you ought to have heard them. It was … dirty!’ She broke into tears.
Denison hastily looked about the bar and then put his hand on Lyn’s. ‘It wasn’t like that; I’ll tell you.’
So he told her, leaving out everything important which would only complicate the issue. He was interrupted once by the waiter bringing the Martini, and then he bore in again to finish his story.
She dabbed at her eyes with a small handkerchief and sniffed. ‘A likely tale!’
‘If you don’t believe me, would you believe the police?’ he said exasperatedly. ‘They’ve been on my neck all morning.’
‘Then why did Diana tell me you were going out with her?’
‘It was the best thing she could have done,’ said Denison. ‘She didn’t want you worried. And about your quarrel – I heard a bit of it on the tape.’ He explained about that, and said, ‘The police have the tape now.’
Lyn was horrified. ‘You mean everyone is listening to that quarrel?’
‘Everyone except me,’ said Denison drily. ‘Have your Martini.’
Something else occurred to her. ‘But you might have been hurt – he might have killed you!’
‘But he didn’t – and all’s well.’
‘Who could it have been?’
‘I suppose I’m a fairly important man in some respects,’ said Denison tiredly. ‘I told you yesterday that I don’t babble about my work. Someone wanted information and took direct action.’
She straightened her shoulders and looked at him with shining eyes. ‘And didn’t get it.’
He brutally chopped the props from under the hero worship. ‘As for Diana Hansen, there’s nothing in it – not the way you think. But even if there were it’s got nothing to do with you. You’re behaving more like an affronted wife than a daughter.’
The glow died. Lyn hunched her shoulders a little and looked down at the Martini glass. Suddenly she picked it up and drained the contents at a swallow. It took her breath away and she choked a little before putting down the empty glass. Denison grinned. ‘Does that make you feel better?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said miserably.
‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘No harm done. Let’s go for a walk.’ He signalled to the waiter and paid the bill and, as he got up from the table, he glanced over at the bar and saw Armstrong doing the same. It was comforting to have a bodyguard.
They left the bar and went into the lobby. As they approached the entrance a porter came in loaded with baggage, and a burly figure followed. ‘Hey, Lucy; look who’s here,’ boomed a voice. ‘It’s Harry Meyrick.’
‘Oh, hell!’ said Denison, but there was no escape.
‘Who is it?’ asked Lyn.
‘I’ll introduce you,’ said Denison grimly.
‘Hi, Harry!’ shouted Kidder, advancing across the lobby with outstretched hand. ‘It’s great to see you, it sure is.’
‘Hallo, Jack,’ said Denison without enthusiasm, and allowed his hand to be pulped.
‘It’s a small world,’ said Kidder predictably. ‘I was only saying that to Lucy the other day when we bumped into the Williamsons in Stockholm. You remember the Williamsons?’
‘Of course,’ said Denison.
‘I guess we’re all on the same Scandinavian round, eh? I wouldn’t be surprised if the Williamsons don’t turn up here, too. Wouldn’t it be great if they did?’
‘Great!’ said Denison.
Lucy Kidder popped out from behind her husband. ‘Why, Harry; how nice to see you. Did Jack tell you we saw the Williamsons in Stockholm?’
‘Yes, he did.’
‘It’s a small world,’ said Lucy Kidder.
‘It sure is,’ said Jack. ‘If the Williamsons get here – and that nice friend of yours, Diana Hansen – we could get down to some poker. That gal is a mean player.’
Lyn said, ‘Diana Hansen? Why, she’s here.’
Surprise and pleasure beamed from Kidder’s face. ‘Now, isn’t that just great? Maybe I’ll be able to win some of my dough back, Lucy.’
‘Lose it, more likely,’ she said tartly. ‘Jack really believes he can play poker.’
‘Now then, Momma,’ he said good-humouredly. ‘Don’t knock the old man.’ He looked down at Lyn. ‘And who’s the little lady?’
‘Excuse me,’ said Denison. ‘Jack Kidder – my daughter, Lyn – Lucy Kidder.’
They shook hands and Kidder said, ‘You didn’t tell me you had a daughter, Harry. You certainly didn’t tell me you had a beautiful daughter. Where you been hiding her?’
‘Lyn’s been at University,’ said Denison. ‘She’s now on vacation.’
Lucy said, ‘I don’t want to break things up, Jack, but I guess we gotta register. The desk clerk’s waiting.’
‘Sure,’ said Kidder. ‘I’ll be seeing you around, Harry. Tell Diana to break out that deck of cards – we’ll be playing poker.’
‘I’ll do that,’ said Denison and, taking Lyn by the arm, he steered her out of the hotel. Under his breath he said, ‘Over my dead body.’
‘Who was that?’ asked Lyn.
‘The biggest bore from the North American continent,’ said Denison. ‘With his long-suffering wife.’
NINETEEN (#ulink_668aa2d1-c17b-5b89-8b07-d4b154cc309a)
Carey and McCready were being violently seasick. They clung to the rail of the small boat as it pitched in the summer gale which had blown up from the south and whistled up the narrow channel between the Swedish mainland and the island of Oland. There was but one significant difference between them – while Carey thought he was dying McCready knew he was dying.
They both felt better when they set foot ashore at Borgholm. There a car awaited them, and a police officer who introduced himself with a jerky bow as ‘Hoglund, Olof.’
‘I’m Carey and this is McCready.’ The wind blew off the sea and riffled his short grey hair. ‘Shall we get on with it?’
‘Certainly. This way.’ As Hoglund ushered them to the car he said, ‘Your Mr Thornton arrived an hour ago.’
Carey stopped dead in his tracks. ‘Has he, indeed?’ He glanced sideways at McCready, and muttered, ‘What the hell does he want?’
They were silent as they drove through the streets of Borgholm. It was not the time yet for talk; that would come later after they had seen what they had come to see. Carey’s mind was busy with speculations arising from the presence of Thornton, and even if he wanted to discuss it with McCready he could not do so in the presence of Hoglund.
The car pulled up in front of a two-storey building and they went inside, Hoglund leading the way. He took them into a back room where there was a trestle table set up. On the table was a long shape covered with a white cloth. Behind the table stood a short young man with a neat vandyke beard, who wore a white coat. Hoglund introduced him as Dr Carlson. ‘You already know Mr Thornton.’
Thornton was a tall, dark man of cadaverous features, smooth unlined skin and indecipherable expression. He was a young-looking sixty or an aged forty – it was hard to determine which and Thornton was not going to tell anybody. It was not his habit to tell anyone anything that did not concern him and he was chary of doing even that. He could have been Carey’s boss but he was not; Carey was proud and pleased to be in another department.
He lifted yellowed, dyspeptic eyes as Carey and McCready entered the room. Carey nodded to him curtly, and turned to Carlson. ‘Good afternoon, Doctor,’ he said in a weary voice. He was very tired. ‘May I see it?’
Carlson nodded without speaking and drew back the cloth. Carey looked down with an expressionless face and motioned for the cloth to be drawn back farther. ‘This is how he was found?’
‘The body has been cleaned externally,’ said Carlson. ‘It was covered with oil. And the manacles have been removed, of course.’
Carey nodded. ‘Of course. There was no clothing?’
‘The man was naked.’
McCready looked at Carey and raised his eyebrows. ‘The same as …’
Carey was unaccountably clumsy. He turned and trod heavily on McCready’s foot. ‘Sorry, George.’ He turned to Carlson. ‘What was the cause of death, Doctor?’
Carlson frowned. ‘That will have to await the autopsy,’ he said cautiously. ‘At the moment it is a question of whether he was drowned or poisoned.’
Thornton stepped forward. ‘Did you say poisoned?’ Carey analysed the tone of voice. In spite of Thornton’s habitual flatness of expression he thought he detected a note of genuine surprise.
‘I’ll show you,’ said Carlson. He opened the jaws of the corpse and took a long spatula and thrust it down the throat. McCready winced and turned away. Carlson withdrew the spatula and held it out. ‘A scraping from the inside of the throat.’
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/desmond-bagley/the-tightrope-men-the-enemy/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
Desmond Bagley
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 18.04.2024
Отзывы: Пока нет Добавить отзыв
О книге: Double action thrillers by the classic adventure writer set in Norway, Finland and Sweden.THE TIGHTROPE MENWhen Giles Denison of Hampstead wakes up in an Oslo hotel room and finds the face looking back at him in the mirror is not his own, things could surely get no more bizarre. But it is only the beginning of a hair-raising adventure in which Denison finds himself trapped with no way to escape. One false move and the whole delicately balanced power structure between East and West will come toppling down…THE ENEMYWealthy, respectable George Ashton flees for his life after an acid attack on his daughter. Who is his enemy? Only Malcolm Jaggard, his future son-in-law, can guess, after seeing Ashton′s top secret government file. In a desperate manhunt, Jaggard pits himself against the KGB and stalks Ashton to the silent, wintry forests of Sweden. But his search for the enemy has barely begun…Includes a unique bonus – Desmond Bagley′s pen portrait, written for the original publication of The Tightrope Men.