Smoked Havoc

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Smoked Havoc Page 12

by Rupert Harker


  First up was a familiar face, an angry, young black man wearing a Gay Pride teeshirt and sporting a yarmulke.

  “I blame the blacks,” he bellowed as he leered into the camera.

  Urban-Smith muted the television volume.

  “I disagree with Dr Cheeseman that there will be no more cases,” said he. “This is clearly another case of problem-reaction-solution.”

  Problem-reaction-solution, is a term coined by conspiracy theorist, David Icke, referring to a situation in which an unsavoury agenda is introduced by creating the circumstances for which that agenda becomes necessary. Only a few months previously, The Fervent fist had unleashed the LOL curse (the problem), a series of lethal telephone calls in order to create public panic and outrage (the reaction). In response to the public’s reaction, there had been the swift release of a telephone app that would screen out harmful calls, but at the same time allowed The Fervent Fist to monitor calls and texts for key words and phrases (the solution).

  It was Urban-Smith’s conviction that The Fervent Fist was deliberately engineering these new deaths in order to provoke another bout of widespread fear and paranoia; but to what end?

  “To what end, indeed,” agreed Urban-Smith. “Schwarzkröte is a cunning and wicked individual, presiding over a criminal organisation of unprecedented resource and influence. Possession of the Apple of Eden is not the final objective, merely one more step towards it.”

  “But what is the final objective?” I cried, exasperated.

  “Dominance. Power. Absolute authority. That is what The Illuminati crave. We have seen how they control key companies in the financial sector, computing and the media. They seek to expand into utilities; water, electricity and the like. Health care too. Once they control supply and demand in these areas, we will all be at their mercy.”

  “How can we stop them?” I implored.

  “All we can do is warn people.” Urban-Smith shook his head sadly. “I have published books, hosted seminars, attempted to disseminate information, but it is no easy task. It is those who refuse to listen, who close their mind to new ideas and possibilities, that are the most easily corrupted, and therefore most vulnerable to a malignant, autocratic oppressor such as the Illuminati. It is those most in need of rescue who place themselves behind locked doors; one of life’s great ironies.”

  I knew this to be true, for mine had been such a door. Only the extraordinary events that had shaken my life from its moorings since my first meeting with Urban-Smith had led me to unlock it.

  “I shall contact Mr Church in the morning,” said Urban-Smith, “and advise him of my concerns.” He glanced at the mantel clock. “Are you attending your club this evening?”

  “Not tonight. I am weary. I shall stay here and browse the global net for further information about clostridial gut infections.”

  “Sounds delightful, Rupert.” He stretched and pulled himself up from his armchair. “I must away, however. I am giving a talk at the Streatham Paranormal Society about kleptogeists.”

  “Kleptogeists?” I wondered if I had misheard.

  “That’s correct. Kleptogeists. A vengeful spirit that steals objects from a person’s home. The Castilians used to call them, the magpies of the spirit world. I have published several monographs on the subject.”

  And so I was left alone with my laptop, searching the interweb for papers relating to clostridial autolytic gangrene of the bowel. One disease seemed to fit the description to a T; pigbel.

  Rare in the developed world, pigbel outbreaks occur mostly in Africa and Asia, usually affecting the malnourished. It was first described in post-war Germany, and given the name, darmbrand (fire bowels), but as malnutrition in Europe disappeared, so did the disease. It was later described in Papua New Guinea, and noted to affect villagers who had feasted upon poorly prepared pork, hence the name, pigbel.

  The disease causes inflammation and necrosis of the small intestine, resulting in abdominal pain, bloating, bloody diarrhoea and often death. At autopsy, examination of the affected bowel reveals gas formation and destruction of the bowel wall.

  Quite a significant amount of research in the subject was attributed to a Dr Motya Arisov of The Royal Battenburg Hospital in Chelmsford, and I resolved to contact him first thing on Monday morning.

  I continued to search the internet until nine, but I was fatigued, so I set aside my laptop and spent a most stimulating hour perusing compendia of female surface anatomy, before indulging in a stiff one and retiring to bed.

  *

  13. Dreams

  Saturday the 3rd

  As I sat at the breakfast table on Saturday morning, awaiting the full English, I could not fail to notice that Mrs Denford seemed distracted, clattering the dishes and fumbling the toast most alarmingly. Urban-Smith remained oblivious, engrossed as he was in the morning Scrump.

  Mrs Denford came to stand beside us at the table.

  “Tell me, Doctor,” said she, “can a dream speak to you of what may come to pass?”

  I was quite taken aback; the question seemed to have materialised from nowhere. I stammered and mumbled for a few seconds. “Erm, well, gosh, hmmm,” and so forth.

  “Stop muttering, Rupert,” snapped Urban-Smith from behind his newspaper. “You will curdle the milk.”

  I gathered my thoughts and tried again. “I can assure you, Mrs Denford, a dream can no more divulge the future than a deck of painted cards or a horoscope.”

  “But you would say that, Doctor,” protested Mrs Denford, “you’re a Capricorn.”

  “Pisces, actually.”

  “My cousin,” she continued “went to see one of those fortune tellers. She told his fortune using tealeaves.”

  “Do tell, Mrs Denford.”

  “She told him that he would experience a great misfortune or malady. A few weeks passed and nothing happened, so he thought little more of it, but then, about three months later….BANG!” She shuddered visibly. “Right out of the blue, he developed diabetes and had to go on medication.”

  “Fascinating things, dreams,” said Urban-Smith. “They are the brain’s way of collating and storing new memories, and also allow the analysis and reorganisation of old ones. This is why one may often fall asleep mulling over some dilemma or conundrum, and subsequently awaken with the matter seemingly resolved. What say you, Rupert?”

  “It is as Confucius said; man who fall asleep with sex problem on mind will awaken with solution on stomach.”

  Urban-Smith refolded and set aside his morning edition. “Would you care to tell us more about your dream, Mrs Denford? Perhaps it will provide some insight as to the state of your subconscious.” He stood and pulled a chair out from the table, and Mrs Denford sank gratefully onto it.

  “I’ve had it for the last three nights,” said she, “and it’s always the same. I dream I am in the living room with Gonzáles when I become aware of a burning smell. I look up, and the bottom of the curtain is smouldering, so I throw water over it, but then I notice that the carpet is on fire. I throw a cushion on it to smother the flames, but then two more fires have started. Each time I try to extinguish one, two more appear, and this continues until the whole house is on fire.

  “But the worst of it is not the heat or the smoke. Somehow I know that the flames will keep spreading and spreading until the whole world burns, and no matter how hard I fight it, all will be lost.”

  I tried to swallow, but my mouth was dry and my throat paralysed. My heart pounded and I tasted the bitter metallic tang that heralds a great surge of adrenaline, for Mrs Denford’s words had resounded a dissonant chord.

  “This is most peculiar,” I whispered hoarsely. “I too have had this dream, not just once, but three times also.” I took a mouthful of tea, though my hand shook so that I almost upturned the cup. “This is the most extraordinary coincidence.”

  “If it is coincidence.” Urban-Smith was pensive. “Are you familiar with the concept of thought transference? I have written several monographs on the su
bject.”

  “Thought transference? From one person to another?”

  “Precisely. During the 1970s, both the CIA and KGB attempted to transfer dreams from one sleeper to another. Each organisation had vast resources at their disposal. Who can say whether or not they succeeded?”

  “It is like most of the things you postulate, Fairfax,” I said, closing my eyes and rubbing my forehead. “Absolute tosh. Sharing a dream with Mrs Denford is pure coincidence?”

  “Ordinarily, I would have to concur, but you see, Rupert, for the last three nights, I too have experienced this very same dream.”

  “Why would somebody want to control our dreams?” asked Mrs Denford, wringing her hands in perturbation.

  “One can only speculate,” said Urban-Smith, “but once they have mastered the transference of dreams, it could be but a short step to thoughts, ideas and beliefs.”

  “Good grief,” I murmured. “Imagine the power that one could wield with the ability to put a thought into another’s head.”

  “Knowledge is power,” mused Urban-Smith. “What if the goal is not to implant thoughts, but to extract them?” He tapped the side of his head. “We have information that others seek. Who knows the depths to which they will sink?”

  *

  I spent the afternoon in quiet contemplation, laid upon the sofa, perusing an illustrated journal of female anatomy while Urban-Smith dabbed and daubed at his latest composition.

  He was not of his usual demeanour, however, tutting and sighing after almost each and every stroke. Finally, he laid aside his brush and reached for his mobile telephone.

  “It is no use, Rupert. I shall have to contact Miss Bolsakov.”

  He dialled the number and set his telephone to speaker for my benefit.

  “Hello?”

  “Miss Bolsakov. This is Fairfax Urban-Smith.”

  “How may I be of assistance, Mr Urban-Smith?” Her voice was detached, neutral.

  “I require information which will assist me in my location of Saxon Schwarzkrote.”

  “I am listening.”

  “Did the KGB ever construct a weapon that can reduce a man to ash?”

  Lubya Bolsakov did not hesitate in her answer.

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Are you aware of a device that can implant one person’s dreams into the mind of another?”

  “No.”

  “Are you familiar with Project Tremble? Praekt Druszet in Russian, I believe.”

  “I can tell you nothing of it. I am sorry that I cannot help you,” she said in a tone that suggested that she was not sorry in the least. “My training is in covert surveillance and counter-intelligence. I have no knowledge of KGB special projects.”

  I shrugged and returned to my periodical. Clearly, we were to learn little from Miss Lubya Bolsakov.

  “What can you tell me of Saxon Schwarzkröte?” persevered Urban-Smith.

  “Saxon Gerik Schwarzkröte, born August 3rd, 1945 in Warsaw, mother Iwona Newjetski, moved to Dessau a few months later, then Hamburg the following year. Schooled at the Johanneum before studying chemistry at The University of Hamburg, graduated with honours in 1967, and obtained his doctorate in 1970.”

  She reeled the information off without hesitation, as if delivering a well-rehearsed speech or recital.

  “During his time at university,” she continued, “he developed an interest in philosophy and politics, often taking part in organised debates and expressing strong left-wing views, often to the dismay or derision of his teachers. He became fascinated with communist philosophy, especially Marxism, and taught himself to speak Russian.

  “Once he had attained his doctorate, he was employed by the pharmaceutical company, Desitin Arzneimittel, to work on the development of medications for the treatment of epilepsy. He acquired a reputation as a diligent and competent worker, but abruptly left Hamburg in the winter of 1975 and travelled to the Russian embassy in East Berlin, where he demanded asylum.

  “At his request, passage was arranged to Munchkingrad, where he was recruited by the KGB and granted a teaching and research position at the Munchkingrad Institute of Technology. Due to his aptitude and dedication, he was seconded to a poisons research facility, and later promoted to the position of Head of Special Projects.

  “At the height of the cold war, Schwarzkröte was reassigned to Moscow and become the Director of the Institute for Special Technology. After the dissolution of the USSR, he was accused of illegally trading classified information, but there was insufficient evidence to take the matter further.

  “Within a few weeks, Schwarzkröte had acquired copies of hundreds of documents pertaining to highly classified special projects, and defected once again, this time to The Fervent Fist in London. He is currently wanted by the FSB for treason, corruption, perverting the course of justice, the murder by poisoning of four senior FSB agents, his involvement in the assassination of the Russian Ambassador in London, and for using a bicycle horn in a built up area after nine p.m.”

  “How is it,” asked Urban-Smith, “that you know so much of the man’s history, yet so little of his work?”

  “The nature of Dr Schwarzkröte’s work in special projects has not been deemed pertinent to your ongoing enquiries.” A tone of impatience crept into her voice.

  “I beg to differ,” said Urban-Smith, seemingly oblivious to Miss Bolsakov’s growing irritation. “If these deaths are the result of the misuse of misappropriated Soviet technology, then knowledge of that technology may assist me in the location of its source.

  “I fail to see how.”

  “Are you familiar with the LOL curse?”

  “Of course.”

  “The LOL curse was transmitted via an electronic device, the design of which was based on a KGB Project known as Project Tremble. In order for the device to be effective, it was necessary for the victim and operator to be within three-hundred metres of one another. Without this knowledge, we may have never been able to apprehend the Fervent Fist operative responsible.”

  There was a pregnant pause.

  “Are you there, Miss Bolsakov?”

  “I shall pass your enquiries along to Colonel Smirnitsky, Mr Urban-Smith. In the interim, please contact me if you come into possession of any further information regarding the location of Dr Schwarzkröte or the Apple of Eden.”

  “Thank you, Miss Bolsakov.”

  “Good day, Mr Urban-Smith.”

  Lubya Bolsakov terminated the call, and Urban-Smith replaced his telephone into his pocket.

  “Like blood from the proverbial stone,” I observed.

  “I must agree,” he said, lifting his paintbrush and refreshing it from his palette. “It seems that, until we can corner the tattooed dragon in his den, we shall have to wait for further events to unfold.”

  As fate should have it, we were not to wait for long.

  *

  14. Chegwin!

  That evening, Nell, Clara and I met at seven o’clock in front of Conundrums, the newly opened riddle-themed restaurant in Leicester Square. The windows and façade were decorated with garishly coloured question marks and jigsaw pieces, and as I held open the door for my female companions, I observed that the waiters and waitresses sported the same design upon their waistcoats.

  We were warmly greeted by the maître d', who escorted us to our table and handed each of us what I assumed to be a menu, yet on the cover was merely the riddle, ‘although I sound like I am complaining, you will find nothing to complain about.’

  I looked at Clara. “What do you think it means?”

  “Ooh,” said Nell excitedly, bouncing up and down on her chair. “Whine. It’s the wine-list.”

  And indeed it was, with each drink, beverage or bottle represented by a clue to its identity. We groaned and chortled at the tortured puns on display, before deciding on two bottles of Claret (give me ‘ell, and I’ll help you to see in the dark).

  As we waited for the waiter to bring our selection, Clara and I sat i
n rapt attention while Nell spoke of her studies. As part of her two-year course in Funeral Studies at the Putney Thanatological College, Nell was required to embalm a minimum of forty bodies; a seemingly daunting task, yet she had already observed half a dozen, and felt ready to progress to embalming under supervision.

  The waiter brought us our two bottles of wine, one of which we emptied whilst we deciphered the main menu.

  “Listen to this,” said Nell. She cleared her throat and began to read.

  “My first is in ocean, but not in the sea. (c)

  My next was in Steps, but not the Bee-Gees. (h)

  Without my third, you’re as blind as can be. (i)

  My fourth can be found when you search for the sea. (c)

  My next is kicking, not flaccid or frail. (k)

  The next can be found in between ‘f’ and ‘male.’ (e)

  With an ‘en on the end, an ‘en we shall pledge, (n)

  Served up with potatoes and seasonal veg.”

  The clues to the rest of the menu were equally preposterous, and became progressively more entertaining and difficult to solve, the more wine we consumed.

  I will confess that I spent much of the evening glancing at my watch, eagerly anticipating a fine evening’s love-making with these two beautiful women. As soon as the last bone was picked clean, I practically pounced upon the waiter for the bill whilst Nell and Clara flounced away to hail a taxicab.

  Clara was of feisty disposition, and within twenty minutes of our arrival at Nell’s flat on the fifth floor of Saville Towers, I was tethered at the wrists to the headboard as Clara knelt astride my thighs, encouraging me to readiness. Nell was in submissive mood, laid naked upon the floor at the foot of the bed, arms tightly bound behind her back, a ball gag in her mouth, and a leather hood over her head. She struggled and whimpered theatrically as she awaited her turn with Clara, our dominatrix extraordinaire.

  “We’re going to try something a little different tonight, Rupert,” Clara moaned huskily into my ear.

 

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