‘About your agents? Where are they?’
Chang opened his wallet and drew out a short list of names. ‘No other living person knows of these men’s contact with Nationalist China, Doctor, so I am paying you a rare compliment. They include two of my best men and you will make yourself known by showing this.’ He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket and produced a tiny ivory snuff-box. Ten drawers had been fashioned in its side and the thing was a superb example of Chinese craftsmanship. ‘My people have each a sliver of ivory which fits exactly into the second top drawer,’ said Chang. ‘There is no duplicate to this box and it will be absolute proof of identity. I trust you, of course, to guard the list of names and addresses with your life and preferably to commit them to memory.’
‘I’ll do that,’ said Grant. ‘And now tell me all you know about Michael Gusev, his personal habits and so forth.’
Alvis slammed his doodling pad back into his pocket and fished out a small diary to which he made references from time to time whilst Grant jotted down rapid notes. Born 1895. A true revolutionary. Associated with Lenin both during his exile and later. Anti-Trotsky and close to Stalin throughout the whole of his life. Educated in Tiflis, Cracow and Warsaw with medical qualifications from Warsaw and Berlin. Accepted internationally before the second world war as a top research bacteriologist. Recognised as one of the world’s foremost authorities on the culture of soil bacteria. Developed into a propagandist for bacteriological warfare in 1943 when things were going badly in Russia but was unable to sell his ideas even to Stalin, who thought them dangerous and liable to bounce back. Since then said to have become obsessive about the subject and now claiming that since there is a stalemate from the thermo-nuclear angle Russia ought to resort to bacteriological tactics in the event of conflict. Believes that an old-fashioned conventional type of war could develop with gas and atomic weapons ruled out by mutual consent and thinks that germ bombs might be the ace of trumps for Russia. Said to have spent several years looking for a suitable bug. Accepts that a nation-wide immunity would have to be built up in Russia against whatever he chose.
‘Personal habits?’
‘Married. Two grown-up children. Flat on the outskirts of Moscow and an office inside the Kremlin, said to be built against the north-west wall behind the churches. Ballet is his only real outside interest apart from his work and he attends theatre twice a week during the season. But he has a fancy for young girls and has had several affairs with promising juniors in the corps de ballet. Known to be a glutton. Favourite restaurants are the Hotel Metropole and Moskva. Drinks brandy to excess but rarely drunk. Works a twelve to fourteen-hour day and takes no exercise. Owns a Pobeda car and has the use of a Zim when on official duties. Friendly with most of the top politicians but unpopular with certain elements in the Secret Police because he was once a Beria man.’
‘How about his character?’
‘A strong man with few weaknesses. Probably not a coward.’
‘And a die-hard communist, you said?’
Alvis nodded. ‘Yes. One of the boys of the old brigade.’
Grant had taken down every word in his own bad shorthand. When he had the facts committed to memory the record would be destroyed. ‘And now, changing the subject, has there been any fresh news from your ship, Mr. Chang? How about the prisoner?’
Chang smiled politely. ‘We had news this evening. The man died shortly after my captain started to question him.’
Grant looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Torture?’
‘Please!’ Chang spread his hands in a gesture of despair. ‘The simple truth is that he died. Perhaps a stroke. I don’t know.’
‘And he said nothing?’
‘If he had I would tell you.’
Sir Jonah glanced doubtfully at Grant. ‘Fact, David. After all, people do die like that. Snuff out when you least expect it. Anyhow there it is.’
‘What happened to the body?’
Chang was off-hand. ‘My people will dispose of it safely. Probably when they are out to sea.’
‘And now another point,’ continued Grant. ‘Where is this enclave, that quarantine place where the Russians are supposed to be putting victims of this new disease? The camp Mr. Alvis mentioned a couple of days ago?’
Alvis pointed to a map lying on Sir Jonah’s desk. A small red dot marked a spot in the south not far from the Moscow-Odessa highway. ‘There,’ he said, ‘and its approaches are heavily guarded. The camp itself is said to have practically no discipline, because, for obvious reasons, none is required. Inside guards will probably be few but the place it virtually sealed off with the usual barriers, wire fence, sentries, dogs and so forth.’
‘None of your people have been there?’
‘None. Too risky.’
For five minutes Grant reviewed the situation whilst the others watched him, Sir Jonah with detached interest, Alvis disapproving, but anxious to please, and Chang impassive as usual but with his eyes never leaving Grant’s face. And then he spoke. His voice was quiet and his manner gentle. ‘What are your chances of success? You will understand that your opinion is important to all of us.’
Grant toyed with his glass. Perhaps, after all, he had been unreasonably awkward. It would do no harm to accept the olive branch. But these things were unpredictable. Too many imponderables. A lot of luck. ‘I’ve got a hunch,’ he said at last. ‘I think I can do it. One point though. This fellow Gusev, what languages has he?’
Alvis opened his diary. ‘Russian’s his native tongue, of course, but he has fluent command of German. Nothing else.’
Grant took the news as an omen. Although he had a working knowledge of French, Spanish and Arabic, he himself was much more at ease with German, which he had mastered even as a schoolboy. Thanks probably to several long holidays in a Swiss Kinderheim where he had been parked for safe-keeping whilst his parents roamed the Middle East or North Africa.
Chang continued amiably. ‘I don’t want to pry into your methods, but do you seriously believe that your tactics can overcome Soviet counter intelligence measures?’
‘At least I can hope so. But it is probably just as well that I had a recent reconnaissance or I wouldn’t have known where to begin.’
‘And although this mission may involve investigation of Professor Gusev’s flat, which is actually inside the Kremlin walls, you think that you can out-manœuvre Kremlin security?’
Grant smiled slightly. That was the least of his troubles.
‘And your lines of communication?’
‘I’ve got your two men in Moscow. Otherwise I’ll play a lone wolf.’
‘And how about your getaway? You understand,’ continued Chang quietly, ‘that if we can help you, you have only to let us know.’
‘Getting out might be difficult,’ agreed Grant. ‘But I must figure that one when the time comes. I’ll try to prepare several possibilities.’
‘You are a very confident young man,’ said Chang, ‘but before we separate I want you to understand something. This matter is absolutely vital for the entire Free World and it may even be that its continued existence will depend on your own efforts. The fact that Mr. Alvis, an American, and myself, an Asiatic, have chosen you in preference to any other man available should be proof enough of our belief in your abilities. No man can work well with worry on his mind and I want you to go away knowing that you have our complete confidence.’
Grant detested sentimentalities. And so much for Chinese impassivity, he thought. The Far East was just as nutty as the West when it came to the bit. Neurotics one and all. ‘Right, sir.’ He stood up and held out his hand. ‘Thanks very much. Got to go now.’
‘And when should we expect results?’ asked Alvis.
Grant hesitated. ‘You won’t like this but I don’t expect to leave for about four months or so. Got a lot to prepare. Give me six months from now to finish the job.’
‘Too long,’ said Alvis sharply. ‘We’ve got to settle everything within weeks.’
‘Then use s
omebody else,’ said Grant curtly. ‘This is early winter and I’m not moving to Moscow before April.’
Chang laid a delicate hand on his forearm and gently pulled him away from the door. ‘Can you assure us that you need all that time to make your preparations?’
‘Yes.’ Grant’s patience was running short and he was sick of having to explain himself. ‘And now, can I go?’
Chang stared at him impassively, his slanting eyes boring into Grant’s skull as he tried to read his thoughts. And then he relaxed. ‘Yes, Doctor, you can go. But remember this. Our agreement is to kill. I want this man Gusev dead.’
Chapter Nine – A willing human guinea pig
Grant returned to London by midnight. He had kept on his flat in Kensington Gardens, although it was used less than once in every two or three months. But it gave him a sense of security, and he still thought of it as home, even if he agreed that security was probably a bad thing for a man in his type of job. It sapped morale and sometimes made him dream of growing cabbages in the country or living it up in the West End. When he remembered that the law of averages was weighed heavily against him his hunch that all would go well began to fade.
If the worst came to the worst, he wondered, just how much could be stand if he were caught? Was there a point at which any man was bound to talk? And if he did squeal how much did he know which could help an enemy? As he lighted a last pipe, his signet ring glinted against the light. Its tiny syringe had been reloaded and the needle tested. One way out! Deliberately he weighed the pros and cons of the future. Everything must now depend on Professor Juin, and on that little bit of luck which every man is entitled to expect when he plays for high stakes. Another two weeks would settle at least one crucial point. Whether or not he could build up a tolerance to the nerve gas. But if so, he swore heavily, nothing on God’s earth would prevent him scooping the pool in Moscow.
And after that. Maya!
The house was friendless. It needed a woman to waken it up. Flowers and things. Would she fit in? Did he really want to marry her? And if he did what would happen to his future in the Service? A one-way ticket, most likely, to a desk job in London. Was any woman worth a price tab like that? A long life by the fire, or a short life in the saddle? The Service might give him a short life indeed, but at least it would be worth living, and as like as not if he settled in London he would run to seed with boredom. Apart from anything else, after more than twelve years worth-while living in the centre of high drama, orthodox medical practice would drive him crazy.
He bedded down tense with expectation, his brain, as always, over-active on the eve of a job, and not showing signs of settling until half-way over the Channel next morning, his fourth trip in less than a week. He guessed that some of the department people would again check that he was not being followed, but he still sweated at the thought of his carelessness last time. From the Air Terminal he took a taxi to Pigalle and then the Métro to Gare du Nord where he changed to a bus and dropped off at traffic lights near Etoile. Another taxi to a bookshop in Rue de Rivoli and then the Métro to Montparnasse from where he walked to Maison Candide by way of the Luxembourg Gardens. Miss Sidders showed him immediately into the Admiral’s room. Her manner was studiedly neutral and he could read nothing into her formal welcome. ‘Good morning, Doctor, you are exactly on time.’
The old man was sitting at his desk nursing his pipe and the tape recorder was again playing out the conversation of Lyveden Hall. ‘Just refreshing my memory,’ he said abruptly. ‘Sit down. About ten minutes of it left.’
At last it was over and the Admiral looked up expectantly. ‘Well, son. How did it go?’
Grant carefully marshalled his thoughts. Reports like this had to be brief and succinct. ‘They’ve agreed to let me work on my own terms. Which means that I tell them nothing about our methods. They’ve also laid on two of Chang’s agents in and around Moscow. Alvis has briefed me on the habits of Professor Gusev, and finally Chang says that his prisoner died whilst he was being grilled. He claims that there was no torture and that death was due to natural causes. Just an unfortunate coincidence.’
‘And you don’t believe him? Why not?’
There was nothing to justify Grant’s suspicions, but he simply didn’t believe it. ‘The man looked fit enough to me, sir. He was quite young. Colour good and all that. And anyhow,’ he added grimly, ‘it is too much of a coincidence. Don’t like coincidences.’
‘Why should Chang lie?’ The Admiral was pulling violently at his pipe, a sure sign that he was thinking furiously. ‘Think he’s afraid to admit they killed him? He suggested as much to you at one stage. Said Alvis wouldn’t stand for it.’
‘But there is no reason why he shouldn’t have told me,’ argued Grant. ‘There must be some other explanation.’
‘Hrrmph.’ The old man was non-committal. ‘Or is he holding out on the others? Wanting an ace up his sleeve?’
Grant refused to speculate. ‘I don’t know, sir, though it’s worth remembering, but I think we’ll keep a careful eye on Chang until this business has been settled.’
The Admiral relaxed. ‘Right. Fly to Edinburgh tomorrow and Professor Juin will join you at Perth. You’ll arrive at the Home together and start work right away. I’m also sending a ballistics expert up later in the winter to gen you up on one or two new weapons, so if you’ve got any ideas about special gimmicks let him know.’
‘Got one or two now, sir, if that’s all right by you.’
The old man pressed a bell-push and Miss Sidders joined them, her pencil poised for action as she sat down on a tall wooden chair beside the desk. Grant was accustomed to ADSAD’s no delay tactics but was slightly taken aback by the speed of the old man’s reaction and had to gather his wits together more quickly than he would have wished. As he dictated his notes the secretary’s face became serious, but a smile twinkled on the Admiral’s lips and at the end he nodded with satisfaction. ‘You’ve got a fertile imagination, son, but we’ll do our best and I’ll send a signal about progress after a few weeks.’
‘Just one other thing,’ said Grant slowly. ‘Could you get them to check on the smallest and most destructive fire bomb there is, sir? I’d like something really deadly, but no bigger than an egg. And the bag is important. If one of the technical staff cared to talk it over we might swap ideas.’
The old man looked steadily across the desk and then struck a match, thrusting the flame deep into the bowl of his briar. At last he raised his head and blew a long cloud of smoke towards the window. ‘We’re of different generations, David, and I was brought up using guns and fists. I hate all this scientific nonsense, though I do accept that you’ll need all the complicated gadgetry that’s going. This is your show and it looks promising. But I insist that you remain strictly practical, and don’t forget that there’s still a place for fire-arms.’
Grant knew better than to argue. ‘Yes, sir.’
The Admiral’s frosty manner suddenly thawed. ‘News from Moscow that your girl’s still safe. Thought you’d like to know.’
Miss Sidders was waiting for him in the next room. ‘I’ll get your flight ticket sent round to your office this evening plus a reserved seat Edinburgh to Perth. Corner and back to engine? Right?’
It was a contrast which made him almost want to laugh. And so unimportant really until he remembered that this was one of the secretary’s little ways of showing that personal touch which mattered. ‘Sure,’ he said, ‘that’ll be just fine, a corner seat with back to the engine.’
But as he rumbled north on the following afternoon he was glad of her foresight. Both aircraft and train had been crowded and reservations made all the difference. The previous day had degenerated into a desperate rush. Four hours to clear his desk at H.Q. and then another hour tying up loose ends with the staff. A frantic scramble to pack for a four-month trip away from home. Then a shower, with minutes left to dress for dinner with Jacqueline, his adorable secretary. Their evening had been perfect and he left her feeli
ng like a million dollars. He had always hated these days before things began to move, detested the slow unravelling of a plan, but now he was on the ball and ready for anything. He amused himself by recalling the approaches to the Kremlin, the entrance to the churches and palaces, the places of possible concealment and the few exit gates of escape until, at last, he dozed off to sleep near Berwick and wakened five minutes south of Perth.
Professor Juin was waiting outside the station with a car and chauffeur. His manner was official and his first news reassuring. ‘I’ve been into all that business you were talking about and I think we’ve a chance. You won’t like it, but it’s your own idea, and frankly I’m glad to have the use of a willing human guinea pig who has the training to co-operate intelligently.’
‘How long will it take to arrange everything?’
‘At least two months. Maybe three.’
‘And when do we start?’
‘Tomorrow.’
The lights of the Big House were coming into view before either of them spoke again. After Paris the peace of Perthshire was like a draught of champagne and its sombre rolling hills enfolded them in a silence which neither was willing to break. As the car crunched up the uneasy drive Grant began to hum a favourite song and the Frenchman glanced at him in surprise. Well, why not? he thought. If things went wrong tomorrow he might be dead before night. Let him be happy whilst it was still possible.
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