‘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‘At the end of this war, which the Finns know as the Continuation War, there was a peace treaty and the frontier was withdrawn.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 o
rdinary 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.’
The Tightrope Men / The Enemy Page 10