by Paul Kenyon
"Good," he said with unfeigned approval. "Fast. I'm glad to see you're in condition."
She looked around the basement room. "So this is where they hang out," she said.
The place was lined with electronic equipment: transmitters and radio intercept consoles, CRT screens, even a bank of computer peripherals. Sumo had plugged in his own computer terminal, an elegant little device that fit into a suitcase. There was a miniature tape drive that used the CIA tape memories as slaves, and a pile of taped programs to go with it.
"Just the electronics specialists," Farnsworth said. "The rest of them are on the regular embassy staff. Nobody in the state department inquires too closely as to what they actually do here. It might be embarrassing."
"These dingalings have every phone line in the embassy tapped, would you believe it?" Sumo said. "Of course, they're tapping every other embassy in town, too."
"Let's get to work," the Baroness said.
Sumo seated himself at his portable console and began warming up the CIA equipment. It was fortunate that the clandestine electronics outpost existed. They were going to need a lot of technical capability for the night's work that was ahead of them, and they couldn't possibly have assembled enough equipment of their own in London on such short notice. A number of the computer taps they needed were already in place, courtesy of the CIA, and they were even tied into a big directional antenna, hidden somewhere in the neighborhood, that could reach the relay satellites.
First order of business was Tony Cavendish.
Like an artist painting by numbers, the computer began to assemble a portrait of Tony. It came from those electronic residues that everyone leaves behind him in life. Banking transactions. School and military records. Police files. Security checks. Tony was an important man, the custodian — like all rich and powerful men — of a measurable fraction of Britain's prosperity and security. MIS and MI6 had files on him, and the CIA and the NSA had files on the files.
But nobody had ever put it all together the way Sumo did.
"Ruthless bastard," Farnsworth said when they were finished.
"I knew that, darling," the Baroness said. "He couldn't have gotten to where he is without being ruthless."
"But that doesn't necessarily tie him in with SPOILER," Sumo said. "Sure, he might have been overjoyed when his competitors got zapped. He might even have been doing a little industrial espionage. He might have taken advantage of the situation. But it doesn't mean he was responsible for it."
Farnsworth said, "But Lord Anthony Cavendish is a dangerous man, nevertheless. Be careful, Penny. The stakes are enormous. And your friend doesn't play by the rules. He likes to win."
"I'll be careful, John," she said.
"Next order of business," Farnsworth said. "How does SPOILER do it?"
The Baroness tossed a cassette to Sumo. "See if the answer's in there."
"What is it?" Sumo's lively face showed interest.
"A coded transmission from Dan Wharton. I sent him to Rotterdam this afternoon to poke around the refinery ruins. I just got this before I left."
They played the cassette. Wharton had scraped up samples of the evil-smelling slime that had been left behind when the oil tanks split. A trained chemist, he had done a preliminary analysis in just a few hours.
"There's no doubt about it," Wharton's voice said as Sumo's equipment unscrambled the pulses on the tape and turned them back into sound. "I've identified a number of amino acids in the stuff. The oil turned into something alive."
The three of them looked at one another. Sumo whistled.
"Probably some kind of bacteria," Wharton said. "I'll know more later. But whatever it was gobbled up the oil, grew on it. The residue contains traces of proteins, lipids, and carbohydrates."
"That's why it stank," Farnsworth said. "It was spoiling.
"And that's why it attracted the sea gulls," the Baroness said. "Like garbage."
Wharton's voice went on as the tape whirred. "…but there were no recognizable cell structures. The rate of growth and decay must be incredibly rapid. If we want to track down the actual organism, we'll need a fresher sample…"
But Wharton had given them the necessary lead. A good deal of the world's scientific information is stored in computer memories, and many of those memories are accessible over ordinary telephone lines. Sumo punched the necessary query onto tape, then plugged in the prepared programs that would translate the query into a dozen computer languages. Electronic pulses flashed along the network of telephone cables uniting England and Western Europe, hiding between ordinary pulses, riding piggyback on Intelsat transmissions, stealing minute boosts of energy here and there, seeking out computer memories as leeches seek out blood. In less than a minute, the burst of clandestine static had crackled around the world.
The answer came back a minute later. They all looked at the screen where it was displayed.
"Israel," the Baroness said. "That's where the most advanced research is going on."
"Oil-eating bacteria," Sumo said, studying the computer display. "The Israelis developed a fast-multiplying strain that feeds on crude oil. But, Baroness, they couldn't possibly be involved. It's legitimate scientific research — all open and aboveboard. Part of a research project to clean up oil spills and keep pollution down."
"It's all we've got to go on, Tommy," the Baroness said. "We'll look into it."
"I'm no bacteriologist," Farnsworth said, "but I don't see how this…" — he squinted at the screen — "…this arthrobacter bug could be responsible for the kind of thing that happened in Rotterdam. And the NATO maneuvers."
"We'll have to ask the experts," the Baroness said. "Tommy…"
Sumo bent over his console again. A long list of names paraded across the screen. Farnsworth took notes. Sumo punched buttons. The list became shorter. Farnsworth underlined names. Sumo pushed buttons again. Finally there was one name left.
"Sir Angus Bane," the Baroness read off the screen. "Britain's most distinguished living bacteriologist. Knighted in 1947 for his services in developing broad-spectrum antibiotics during the war. Won the Nobel Prize for his work in genetic engineering."
"I remember that," Sumo said. "A series of brilliant experiments in transplanting genes in bacteria. Part of a project to increase world food production."
The face showing on the screen was that of a gaunt, saintly man with a great shock of white hair. There was a craggy shelf of brow, deeply lined cheeks, and the thin lips of an ascetic.
"He hasn't been heard from much in recent years," the Baroness said. "He's been in semiseclusion at his ancestral home, Castle Bane, in northern Scotland. But he looks like a crusty old bird. He may be able to help us."
"You're not thinking of a direct approach?" Farnsworth said.
She gave him an amused glance. "Of course not. Not at first, anyway. Somebody else may have had the same idea."
Sumo plucked at his phony gray beard. "If we can uncover any sort of link between Sir Angus and those Israeli researchers, we may have a line on SPOILER."
Penelope nodded. She froze in midnod.
A big black warning had floated in computer letters across Banes' face. The face disappeared and was replaced by a rippling blob in the general shape of a man. The blob moved on stubby arms and legs to one side of the screen, then stopped.
"Somebody in the corridor," Sumo said. "I hooked an infrared detector into the system."
"Probably our friend," Farnsworth said, "but let's make sure."
They covered the door with their guns. Farnsworth jerked it open. A short, stocky man with a toothbrush mustache was there, looking through the keyhole. He straightened up and walked in with the utmost aplomb.
"You chaps believe in being careful, don't you?" he said. He caught sight of the CRT screen, where the ghostly blob was just walking offstage. "I say, was that me? Deuced clever!"
They put away their guns. "You're Fenshaw?" Farnsworth said.
"That's me, right enough. You must be the Key f
ellow." He thrust out a set of square, stubby fingers for a handshake.
Farnsworth introduced them all around. "This is Clive Fenshaw of MI5." He introduced Penelope as "Miss Thwaite."
"Charmed," Fenshaw said.
The Baroness found herself looking into a pair of very clear, shrewd blue eyes. Fenshaw was overdoing it a bit with the toothbrush mustache and the raglan coat but, then, so was she. She was certain that he was looking straight through her protruding bite and the wig and the padded ankles. She didn't bother simpering for him.
"Clive's here under a special arrangement," Farnsworth said.
"Very special," Fenshaw said. "Unprecedented, in fact. Had to be authorized by the home secretary himself. Our chief of service wasn't very happy about that. Can't say I blame him. But here we are."
"We're going to be privy to all the details of MI5's investigation into the North Sea incident," Farnsworth said. "You'll be working in liaison with Fenshaw here. You'll be getting a peek at a few of the security service's secrets."
"And we'll be getting a peek at a few of yours," Fenshaw said. His bright, clever eyes darted around the CIA's equipment. "So this is where you chaps listen in?" he said. "Wish we could afford an installation like this."
Penelope allowed herself a sardonic smile. Farnsworth was an unprincipled old rascal. But it was worth it — trading off some of the CIA's secrets for the cooperation of MI5. The CIA had no business doing this sort of thing in a friendly country, anyway.
Sumo handed Fenshaw a reel of tape. "Evidence of good faith," he said. "This is a tap we made on the French embassy. There's some evidence of hanky-panky involving one of your cabinet ministers."
The CIA was going to be surprised to find that one missing in the morning, Penelope thought.
Fenshaw pocketed the tape. "Thanks, chaps. And now I have something for you. Did you know the Norwegians received a threat from SPOTLER? Said they'd destroy all of Norway's oil reserves under the North Sea. The Norwegian government's decided to pay them off."
Penelope appreciated the information. It must have cost Fenshaw a lot to reveal, in passing, that England had an agent in Norway's Statoil.
"And how about the British government?" she said. "Are they going to pay off SPOILER, too?"
"Haven't had a threat yet," he said blandly.
"What do you call the disaster aboard the Illingford drilling platform?" she said.
"I don't know. An accident. A slip. A warning. We're not going to wait for the next move. The British sites are right up against the Norwegian line in the North Sea. We're probably dipping into the same undersea pools in some instances. Her Majesty's government is determined not to give in to blackmail. We're getting a head start on the situation."
"How much of a head start?"
"A few interesting things have come up," he said vaguely.
"I thought you were going to cooperate?"
His blue eyes fixed on her unblinkingly. "My dear Miss… Thwaite, I assure you that I'll share my leads with you. There's something I'm working on at the moment. I'm going to need your help on it, in fact. You'll hear from me in a day or two."
And that was all they could get from him. He left after arranging another rendezvous.
"What do you think?" Farnsworth said.
The Baroness said, "He's a nice little man. I like him. I think he's playing it straight."
Sumo said, "We've got enough to work on for the moment, anyway." He unplugged the computer connections and started to pack up.
They must have come down the corridor in the thirty seconds between the time that Sumo unplugged the infrared detector and the moment they started to leave. The door burst open, and there were three very Ivy types standing there pointing guns at them. Two of the guns were .45 automatics, but the third was a very unpleasant riot gun that would do to them — if the man holding it pressed the trigger — what an egg sheer does to a hard-boiled egg.
"Just don't move," the man with the riot gun said in a nasty voice.
He stood framed in the doorway, holding the gun like a fire hose. His friends spread out on either side.
"Who are you?" he said. "Which one of the Oppo?"
"Good God!" Penelope said. "Do they give you people a manual on how to talk, too?"
"Shut up. How did you get in?"
One of the flanking Ivy types spoke up. "They used Armstead's pass, Kev. I don't know how they got hold of it. The guard told me it'd been turned in, and I thought I'd drop by Armstead's office myself before I went to work. He wasn't there, so I thought I better get you."
The man who'd answered was a little older than the other two, with features that were perhaps a shade more fine-drawn. Penelope recognized him as one of the top diplomatic staff, only a couple of levels below the ambassador. The CIA had about fifteen hundred spooks in the state department. Some of them were in fairly high posts. He'd have been through the course at the Farm in Virginia, but she rated him number three on the danger list.
Number two was the other side man. He was holding his gun as if he knew how to use it. And as if he'd like to. It was pointed midway at a spot between her and Tom Sumo.
Kev, the spook with the riot gun, was the danger man, the number one. He was one of those crazy types that was always getting the agency into trouble. He had freshly shampooed blond hair in an artless cowlick across his forehead, and a clean-cut ail-American face with a short, straight nose. He was a big young man, enormously big, with the shoulders of a football player. She could tell from his stance that he was one of those wild men who exceeded his orders and initiated break-ins, beatings, kidnappings, and assassinations. Everybody was Oppo to him, especially people from other agencies.
He was going to manage to kill them with that riot gun, somehow. Any excuse would do: a sneeze, a twitch, a deep breath, a hand movement, nothing at all. He'd take the guns off what was left of their bodies, and the senior man, the number three, would commend him in the report.
She stood very still.
"Look, Kev," the number two said, pointing at Sumo.
"A gook!" Kev said triumphantly. "They got a gook with them!"
"The Chinese," number two said. "Working hand in hand with a couple of English commies."
"You can't trust any of them," said the senior man.
"Beg pardon, honorable sir," Sumo said in an exaggerated accent, "I'm a Jap."
"Shut up," Kev said.
"He doesn't have Chinese features," the senior man said reluctantly. "Maybe we'd better…"
"North Korean," Kev said. "They're planning another Pueblo. They're after agency records about our English activities. It would be a propaganda victory for them."
It was important to get the words right before you killed someone.
The Baroness estimated distances and positions. The three CIA men were professionally out of reach. Her gun was back in her bra, along with the rest of the lumpy stuffing. At the first flash of a hand move from her, the twenty-four slugs in Kev's riot gun would be slicing through the air like a needle spray made of lead. There was no way to duck them. She would have been willing to bet that Kev had sawed off the points to turn them into boon stoppers. She'd die of shock if one of the bullets so much as grazed her little finger.
She turned pale.
It was easy. All she had to do was to concentrate on the biofeedback exercise that cut off blood circulation to her face. It took about ten seconds. Her face drained realistically.
She stumbled as though she were faint.
"Easy, doll," Kev said.
She stood where she was, swaying slightly. She'd cut it fine, but now she was a couple of feet out in front of Sumo and Farnsworth, and within six inches of being able to reach Kev's testicles with the toe of her sensible brown shoe.
All she needed was a chance.
"How are we going to interrogate them?" the senior man said. "We can't take them up through the embassy."
"Right here, Fletch. We can tie them up in those chairs. The walls are thick enough t
o muffle any screams."
"Screams?" The senior man looked uncomfortable.
"You haven't forgotten what they taught you about interrogation techniques?" Kev said.
"No, but…"
"Don't forget, they've seen your face, Fletch. Your cover at the embassy is blown if they get out of here. We can pack them up afterward in crates."
"I don't know…"
"Or we can just kill them now."
His voice was matter-of-fact, a dull civil servant expressing an option, but his finger was already curling around the trigger. He wasn't going to wait. He couldn't wait. There would be the warm, almost sexual pleasure of seeing a woman torn to ribbons by a burst of the riot gun. And then the slow, languorous pleasure of torturing the two men to death on the pretext of finding out who they were.
She launched herself at him, her foot already lashing out. knowing with hopeless certainty that the fatal six inches was the difference between her life and death. All she could do was punish him, but the bullets would have been sent on their way before he felt her shoe.
The riot gun went off in her face. She was deaf, blind. Her foot was stuck in mush, and she was falling backward.
But she was alive.
She saw why a split-second later when her vision popped back through a red haze. Fenshaw was standing behind Kev, his stocky legs braced apart, his stubby hands gripping the riot gun's barrel, forcing it upward. His teeth, under the bristly red mustache, were clenched with effort.
The entire clip had gone off into the ceiling, ripping into the ductwork. A rain of hot, spent slugs was rattling back to the floor.
Sumo had darted past her like a snake to help Fenshaw take the riot gun away from Kev. He was tuned to her by training and instinct, knowing what her reflexes were going to do next.
She whipped around, not bothering with Kev or the senior man named Fletch, striking at the number two man.
He was swinging his gun around to put a bullet into her. The next thing he knew, his sleeve was being jerked back, caught in a strong grip, and another bundle of fingers was driving straight up under the vee of his lower rib cage, compressing his pancreas, stomach, and liver, and transmitting the powerful shock to his heart. The Baroness drew back her hand, stiff-edged, for a killing blow to the throat, but it wasn't necessary. He slumped to the floor in a coma. She let go of his sleeve and took the gun.