Chang thoughtfully inhaled yet another finger of snuff and sneezed delicately into his handkerchief. ‘So far as I can gather they all remember life as it was before their illness and compare it with their present condition. But every one of them now regards their earlier years as a futile waste of effort and thinks that their present state is preferable.’
‘But how did your chaps get home again?’ persisted Sir Jonah.
Chang smiled slightly. ‘They seemed to have remembered my orders. They knew what they were supposed to do and they did it. Don’t forget that willingness to please is a feature of this illness. Well, both men were more than usually loyal to myself and it may be that this loyalty was so deep that they were still prepared to carry our original orders.’
‘But how does all this tie up with the man you want killed in Moscow?’ asked Grant, interrupting for the first time.
Sir Jonah spoke first. ‘I think it’s my turn. Summing up, the evidence suggests that an influenza-like illness has broken out somewhere in Central Asia and that it is followed by unusual personality changes which are constant. But the fundamental question is this. Where did the dashed bug come from? And it is there that I can help you a bit, because one or two of the boys I know in the World Health Organisation are scared stiff in case some blisterin’ plague or other is brought back to the earth from the moon or something. They think that low forms of life might exist there and that if so any vessel returnin’ to mother earth from lunar landin’ would be a risk. At least until it had been totally sterilised.’
‘So far so good.’
‘But these same bods are also worried about the possibility of bugs which are normal to our earthly world mutating under the influence of cosmic rays and thereby formin’ new races of infective organisms which could cause disease to which no one has any immunity and which would be one hundred per cent new to mankind. Now when I heard this it didn’t mean much. After all these scientific birds are always prattlin’ about some dashed thing or other which is way above the heads of ordinary laymen. But it now seems possible, to me at least, that one of these space-ship things had somehow carried a load of bugs which has got mutated. That is to say the bugs have been altered in some way by prolonged exposure to cosmic rays or somethin’ similar, so that they now produce a disease different from anything we know. And on that talkin’ point one other fragment of evidence clicks into focus. Both Washington and London have known for some time that certain high-powered experiments took place a few weeks after the third and fourth Vostock capsules landed. Somethin’ seemed to have happened, though we had no real evidence as to what it might be. But we did know the man who was said to be in control of the medical work. His name is Gusev and he has a shockin’ record of perverted genius. As a younger man he did unspeakable things to prisoners-of-war, much as some of the Germans did to their own people in Belsen and the like. All, of course, on the pretence of a need to use human subjects for medical research. And we also know that he is one of those men who have advocated bacteriological warfare on a large scale. We further know that he is a fanatical communist and that he is still very much in favour.
‘Now, on the basis of all that my guess is that this character is in charge of the work relatin’ to this new germ, that he sees a chance of persuadin’ his political bosses into using it and that he has been sweatin’ blood to isolate the thing, grow it under laboratory conditions and produce the obvious toxoid and anti-serum which will be needed to protect his own people.
‘This whole affair is a perfect example of how one man with a small part of a story can make no sense out of it, but when a second man contributes his little tit-bit of information a story begins to build up, and so on until there are enough tit-bits to complete the picture.’
‘And a lot of it is guess-work,’ said Grant sourly. ‘What value would this bug have to any country? Surely it would be a menace to everyone?’
Alvis shook his head. ‘No, sir, you are dead wrong. Bacteriological warfare can be a double-edged weapon, but this new disease is such a pleasant sort of thing that it somehow carries anathema. Assuming that the Russians could discover a suitable immunising preparation it might be incorporated into all the vaccines used throughout the country and in a year at most a nation-wide immunity could be established, say on the pretence that they were innoculating against polio. O.K., when that happy day came would it not be a good idea to find some practical method of infecting other countries, and when their populations had been converted into so many millions of friendly nincompoops you wouldn’t even need an army to make a take-over. The local boy-scouts could do it. And don’t forget that by the time the doctors had got round to making a vaccine for immunising they would also have fixed an anti-serum for treatment, or failing that some new antibiotic might cope. At any rate they would have some means for actively treating new cases amongst people listed for continued good health.’
‘And do you seriously believe that this could happen?’ asked Grant.
Chang Hung’s sensitive face was carved like a piece of alabaster. ‘Listen, Doctor. These Russians are quite irresponsible. And they are openly committed to world domination. A hot war is now impossible because of tactical stalemate. But with this they simply couldn’t fail.’
‘And where does Gusev work?’
John G. Alvis turned towards his scribbling pad which was now thickly covered with swans, their eyes a mass of black points which seemed to jump out of the white paper. ‘We can’t say for certain where he is doing his laboratory research, but he has a flat inside the Kremlin just a few doors away from the one Stalin used to use. He’s a real big shot is Professor Michael Gusev and my bet would be that a lot is done there, though he also teaches at the State University. But Kremlin security is top flight and in a thing like this nothing will be left to chance.’
‘So you want me to go to Moscow, meet Gusev and find whether or not he is working on a bug calculated to reduce half the world to a degree of imbecility which will make them welcome slavery under Russian control.’
‘That is so,’ said Alvis.
‘And if there is evidence to back your ideas you want him killed.’
Chang studied his finger-nails and gently polished an imaginary speck of dust from his long, gleaming thumb. ‘Obviously he must be killed, but your most important duty would be to bring us back a culture of any such germs which may exist, having first destroyed all that were left behind.’
Grant was thinking furiously, weighing probabilities and looking for snags. One part of his mind doubted Chang and Lyveden’s theories. And another part doubted if he could pull if off. Kill Gusev? Yes. But steal a specimen of bugs. No. And as for destroying germs that might be virtually impossible.
Sir Jonah listened to him without enthusiasm. ‘All that can be discussed later, David. It’s simply a question of knowhow, and we can arrange that. Lots of experts to be had for the asking. Main thing is your own reaction. How do you feel about it?’
Chapter Six – Asiatic tyrants dictate their own terms
Grant was more surprised than he cared to show. On the face of it Chang’s story was fantastic but against that he had to remember that none of these men was credulous.
‘Have any of these people died?’
Chang nodded. ‘Five. From the usual sort of things, an odd heart attack, one cancer and some tropical illness or other.’
‘And were post-mortems carried out?’
‘Yes.’ Alvis was again doodling, but he had been more deeply involved in this part of the story than either Chang or Lyveden. ‘Indeed two of our top men were flown out to make full investigations. They were told only that we suspected a new disease and asked was there evidence to justify it.’
‘And was there?’
Alvis was non-committal. ‘They found traces of some brain degeneration in certain nuclei of the frontal lobes. Though that might have been explained by high fever and other things. Nothing conclusive.’
‘But did they try to find evidence of a
ny new bug?’
‘Yes, indeed. They even took back the brains and spinal cords to American research centres for further consideration. They also did a lot of blood tests, and in fact, there isn’t one solitary darned thing you can think of that they didn’t do. But up-to-date they won’t admit evidence of either a new bug or any new disease.’
‘How about studies carried out on living subjects? I take it that your doctors have been doing field work in Chang’s quarantine area. What did they find?’
Alvis shook his head. ‘Nothing. At least nothing conclusive. Except perhaps for one pointer, there have been no new cases since we traced and isolated contacts. So far as we can see, the acute . . . as you called it . . . phase lasts about a week and personality changes develop progressively throughout the next fortnight. But three weeks is long enough to convert a go-getting, aggressive tycoon into a passive slave who wants to help everyone, who will do exactly as he is told, who wants only to be loved and who seems to have lost every spark of personal ambition or organising capacity.’
‘Three weeks from master into slave, in fact,’ mused Grant. The thing seemed impossible, but he also accepted that where the human brain was concerned nothing was ever impossible. In fact psychiatrists had done much the same sort of thing for years with their so-called ‘shock therapy’ and through that strange operation of ‘leucotomy’ where a single sweep of the knife could convert a man from anti-social schizophrenic habits into a state of agreeable euphoria. And he had seen at least one case where a violent blow on the head had changed a woman from being a fastidious housewife into a filthy slut who neglected everything, including her children. Then again he remembered how tumours affecting the frontal lobes of the brain might first become suspect through a change of personality in the victim. Yes, he mused thoughtfully, an infection with some selective action on the forebrain might well do the same thing. And the evidence was suggestive. ‘O.K.,’ he said at last, ‘I’ll think about it.’
John G. Alvis looked at him suspiciously. ‘This thing has got to remain a complete secret, otherwise you may start a world-wide panic.’
Grant smiled coldly. ‘I only said I’d think about it. Don’t know much about bugs or things. Need to brood a bit. If I feel I stand a chance of pulling it off I’ll let you know.’ Chang’s questions still rankled and he decided to be difficult. ‘How about my various weaknesses, extravagance and women?’
‘Frankly we must ignore these,’ said Chang softly. ‘I employ several very useful men, but none of them possess the qualities necessary to guarantee success on this mission, whereas, in our opinion, you do.’
‘And salary?’
Chang smiled. ‘Thinking of your overdraft? If you agree to accept this commission fifteen thousand American dollars will be paid into your account on the same day and if you pull it off you will be given another ten.’
For a moment Grant hesitated, suddenly vaguely restless but reluctant to change the subject. Especially when there was no evidence. ‘I know that this sounds crazy,’ he said at last, ‘but are you dead sure that we’ve been completely private?’
The older man looked startled. ‘What d’ye mean?’
‘Your house-party’s been listed in the social columns. Somebody might be interested to know what sort of after dinner conversation goes on amongst people like yourselves. Could anyone have placed a bug in the house?’
‘Talk English,’ ordered Chang impatiently. ‘What do you mean bug?’
‘Microphone. It’s quite the fashion in some places you know. Unscrupulous journalists and politicians do it. Almost routine.’
‘And how the blisterin’ Gehenna could anyone put a blasted microphone in my house, David? Talk sense.’
‘One moment, Sir Jonah,’ interrupted Chang Hung. ‘Do you remember what I said about your friend’s knack of smelling trouble. Do you feel that there’s something wrong, Doctor?’
Grant was looking restlessly around the room wondering if he was making a fool of himself. ‘I don’t know. Just an idea that crossed my mind. You three are pretty important. Lots of news-hawks would give a lot to know what you say to one another.’
He re-lit his pipe and tossed a match into the centre of the log basket, its tiny flame glinting like a fire-fly as it darted through the darkening air. ‘Did you take on any extra staff for the shoot?’
‘Always do.’ Sir Jonah snarled into his moustache. ‘Need an extra kitchen-maid and some house-boys. Used to call them footmen but sounds better nowadays to say “house-boy”.’
‘Who hired them?’
‘Jean, of course. My wife. Who else would be trusted to fill the house with strangers?’
‘That fellow who served us today. Know him well?’
‘No. He’s new. Got impeccable references.’
‘Anyone can get impeccable references, sir,’ said Grant, hoping that the old man would forgive his impertinence. ‘References are no good to anybody unless they are impeccable. Did Lady Jean check on them?’
Sir Jonah hesitated. ‘Honestly David I don’t know. Not my pigeon.’
‘But we all assumed that he must be an old servant,’ said Alvis, ‘otherwise we might have been more careful in some of the things we said whilst he was in the room.’
Grant was writing a message on a piece of paper and a moment later held it up for the others to read.
carry on talking normally whilst i have a look round.
The room was a magnificently proportioned chamber designed in 1776 by Robert Mitchell during his early days in London, with a huge alcove at the western gable and a massive Regency sideboard clearly made to measure for the house. A pair of Adams urns stood at either end and he began his search behind the picture which hung on the wall between, a portrait of the original Jonah Lyveden who had founded the Hall. The room could conceal very little, being all white and hung only with a dozen pictures, but there was an elaborate cornice by the window and a deep pelmet above heavy brocade curtains. He found what he was looking for tucked between pelmet and curtain, but angled downwards towards the table twelve feet away, a sensitive diaphragm blending with the shadows.
Cautiously he tip-toed to the door whilst Chang Hung joined in the rising argument.
He had visited the house off and on every few months for years and knew it as well as he did his own flat. The only place where the short-wave mike could have a receiving station would be in either the servants’ quarters or the nearby pantry. The servants’ rooms were tucked away at the other end of the house and he doubted if the microphone would carry so far on the small transistor which motivated it. Cautiously he walked along the heavily carpeted corridor and paused at the pantry door. It was mid afternoon when the servants were stealing a break between luncheon and late afternoon tea. Gently he turned the handle, pushing and listening for the slightest sound. The door was locked on the inside, but for years he had carried a combined pocket knife and tool kit which was supposed to be the most delicately worked set of burglar equipment in the service. The lock was an old-fashioned heavy thing with a gaping keyhole and ponderous handle. Cautiously he slipped the blades of a special pair of long forceps, finely toothed at the end, through the lower margin of the keyhole and angled them upwards until he felt them engage on the block of metal at the edge of the tumblers. Slowly he tightened his grip, and then levered the key round. He felt the lock slip open and at once there was a sudden scuffle inside.
Thrusting the tool back into his pocket he dived into the room in time to tackle a man already half-way through the open sash. They crashed together on to the floor and a knee dug savagely into his crutch. The blow was sickening, but he managed to change his grip, even then remembering to go easy with his left arm, and getting a scissor clinch with his legs around the man’s thighs. Desperately he fastened his fingers deep into a skinny neck and hung on, but watching his victim’s face with almost clinical consideration as it turned slowly purple and then suddenly darkened. Sir Jonah and the others arrived as the man flopped slackly in his
grip and slithered to the floor. It was the new house-boy.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Grant curtly, ‘he’s alive, but the sooner we get him out of here the better. There was a mike behind your pelmet in the dining-room.’ He pointed to a piece of apparatus still dangling from the servant’s pocket. ‘That’s the receiving end, with an ear-plug and a second link to this tape-recorder. All very professional.’ He was moving with systematic thoroughness, the disconnected tape already in his pocket.
‘And now, sir, we must take a chance. Give me a minute to get my car round to the front and then carry this bod out. If anyone asks what’s wrong we’re taking him to a doctor, but if he shows signs of recovering consciousness knock him cold.’
The servants’ quarters were to the back of the house and with a bit of luck the man could be smuggled away without comment. The Jaguar, a drive-it-yourself job, hired for two days, was well parked and he had a few seconds to spare as it swept round the corner into the wide semi-circular frontage of the mansion. He met the others at the top of the steps carrying the still unconscious prisoner like a sack of coal. Sir Jonah was breathing heavily but Chang moved with sleek dignity as his slim hands gripped the neck and shoulders like a vice.
The man was beginning to open his eyes when they eased him into the passenger’s seat, but as Chang watched him struggle to get his bearings he slipped in beside him and affectionately placed an arm around the prisoner’s shoulders, supporting him upright. ‘You’ll need help, Doctor. I’ll join you whilst Sir Jonah brings the others up-to-date.’
Grant let in the clutch, and as the car leapt forwards he shouted a last message. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll be back in a few hours.’ It was late afternoon, though still daylight, and anything might happen when they reached the dual carriageway less than half-a-mile ahead down the private drive. Braking, he stopped under the shelter of a tall bank, thick with rhododendrons. There was a nylon tow-rope in the boot and a roll of adhesive plaster in the ambulance kit but he didn’t dare take the man out of the car until he was gagged and trussed. A handful of cotton waste was packed into his mouth and broad strips of adhesive tape bandaged round his head and lips. Grant’s leather trouser belt reinforced the ties around his wrists and then they wrapped him like a mummy in a tartan travelling rug which always covered the back seat. The back of the saloon was roomy and together they heaved him on to the floor whilst Chang sat behind holding a short stiletto and with his feet on the writhing bundle. ‘Stop moving,’ he ordered again, ‘or I’ll stab you like a pin cushion.’
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