by Ben Elton
The weapons were not compromised but the small nuclear reactor, which powered Dogged Endurance, was. Within a matter of hours the major European frozen food companies were on the phones trying to get into the Pacific fish market.
The French power station was a much bigger disaster although, since the two incidents were only eight hundred miles apart, their effects became indistinguishable.
After the Chernobyl disaster the world was assured that with modern safety standards such terrible events were unlikely to happen again to a power station, even once in a thousand years. This, of course, was very little comfort because with the present proliferation of nuclear power it will not be long before there are a thousand nuclear power stations; which statistically suggests that one will go pop every year.
The disaster that Chrissy read about in New York made a large section of central France uninhabitable. Besides this, it cast a fall-out cloud that made all meat and vegetables, within a radius of five hundred miles, inedible. The argument for this form of power in the first place had been that it was cheap and clean. Of course, the cost of clearing up the appalling mess of this one disaster was uncomputable, and, with cancers running through many a generation, pretty open-ended.
128: CLOAK AND DAGGER DETENTE
Toole went back to his office at the CIA New York station and phoned Carre in London.
Toole didn’t like Carre. Carre was a boring snob and because he worked for M15 he was obsessed with the idea that everybody would presume that he was gay. He therefore felt the need to continually pepper his conversation with sexual banter to demonstrate just what a clean knobbed heterosexual he was.
‘Hi Carre, it’s Toole. Still getting plenty?’
‘Christ, unbelievable, I mean just unbelievable. I am getting so much pussy at the moment. I don’t know what it is, but really, unbelievable…‘ Carre talked without moving his lips, in what he believed was a languid, public school drawl. An accent that only Prince Charles can carry off, and even he, only just…
‘I mean, honestly, I don’t think there are any poofs left in the firm these days. We all get so much pussy! especially me.’
‘Glad to hear it, bud. Hey listen, could you do something for me?’
‘Maybe. Thought you Yanks could pull your own birds,’ said Carre in a manner calculated to imply the guarded response of a cool, keen brain; but in fact implying, and implying clearly, that he was a fatuous git. Except in wartime, working for the secret service must be a particularly soul destroying occupation. It is such a useless job. You can never know if you’ve got anything right; and even if you did you’re not allowed to tell anyone. This is probably why secret civil servants have always invented fantasy lives for themselves; because their real ones are so dull. Carre hadn’t even done this with any flair. After all, pretending to get laid a lot is scarcely an original pose. The other thing he did was to sit in clubs full of other young men pretending to be old, saying things like, ‘Listen, if Hitler had gone to Eton he’d have made a bloody good minister of agriculture.’
Toole was aware of what a git Carre was, but Carre, being a slime and a toady, knew things, so he was the quickest way to laying Chrissy’s story to rest.
‘Listen,’ said Toole, ‘someone’s turned up a shot that I reckon is as long as they come, but I promised her I’d run it past your people. She has a major money conspiracy theory going round the death of a hack on the Financial Telegraph, called Linda Reeve. My source is convinced the girl was murdered because she was on the tail of some fat cats.’
‘What’s your source’s name and what’s her theory?’ Carre blurted out. Had he really been the cool hand he liked to think he was, he would have affected disinterest. Toole was very surprised indeed, clearly he had hit something.
‘Oh Christ, some mashed potatoes about corporate Armageddon,’ he mumbled cheerfully and evasively. ‘What about the Reeve girl?’
‘No, what about your source, who is it?’ Carre insisted.
Toole was astonished. Obviously there was a case to answer to after all, at the very least about Linda Reeve’s death. He reminded himself to apologize to Chrissy.
‘Never you mind about my source. What’s going on, Carre?’
‘Nothing that I know of,’ Carre said, finally managing to introduce a casual note into his voice. ‘You know me, always interested in totty…I recall the case. The girl was killed and the police asked us to look at it. It was a very professional burglary you see, they were surprised that whoever did it murdered the girl…’
‘Surely that would have gone to Special Branch…if that. More like local CID I’d have thought.’ Toole, of course, did not believe Carre. There was one rule above all others in espionage: the cops hated the spies. Cops never took kindly to getting their investigations taken away from them and would certainly never have voluntarily handed over a murder to M15
— no matter how suspicious. ‘Well, for some reason or other they gave it to us,’ Carre said, unconvincingly. ‘We drew a blank. I just wondered if you had anything, that was all.’ Toole could get nothing further out of Carre, who started trying to talk about totty again. When Toole put the phone down he was at a complete loss about what to do. He had this list of vaguely suspicious, but entirely legal, financial transactions, and a girl with an utterly absurd theory about corporate global manipulation. He had been all set to forget about the whole thing after one call, and now the Brit had as good as confirmed the basis of Chrissy’s theory; i.e. that Linda Reeve’s death was suspicious. That gave a tiny touch of credibility to the rest of Chrissy’s wild thinking. And what were the British doing? Certainly they knew something about this journalist’s death. Poor Toole was now as confused as Chrissy. He too shared with her the same pangs of fear.
Not for long though, as it turned out, because within two hours Toole was dead. His nemesis had appeared in the shape of the head of the CIA West European operation. A very big fish indeed, he had never come to see Toole before and when he entered — without knocking — Toole sprang respectfully to his feet.
‘Just been talking to London, Toole. You’ve stumbled on a big one. This Linda Reeve business, how did you get onto it?’ Toole explained about Chrissy Kelly; hoping like hell that he had not trodden on any major leaguer’s toes.
‘And that’s all?’ the big man asked, and was assured that it was. Then he pulled the gun with the silencer, bade Toole raise his hands, put the gun to Toole’s mouth, shot him and placed the gun in Toole’s lifeless hands — Toole had wondered when his boss entered the room why he was wearing gloves.
Nobody knew why Toole had killed himself. The body had been discovered by the head of the West European operation, who had gone over to question Toole about unauthorised conversations with dubious British agents who were known to boast openly about indiscreet sexual adventures. Maybe, people speculated, that was why Toole killed himself…Lacking any real motivating force in their lives, sex was a spur that secret service types always found tempting to fix on to. People whispered about Toole, pointing out that he had killed himself after talking to a man called Carre at MI5 — which everyone knew had been a den of queers since 1946. What’s more, it seemed that this Carre was fixated by demeaning and smutty talk about women — which CIA analysts claimed was probably a denial of his deeper and very different desires. Poor old Carre, the most terrible thing he could imagine happened: his CIA file got marked down as possible subversive homosexual.
Actually Toole died because both Carre and the big American Head of West European operations worked for Stark; although they had no idea of the real nature of their employment. They both presumed that they were simply involved in industrial espionage. Very rich men gave them orders and they carried them out. Carre had been instructed to keep an eye on the Reeve murder — in fact he had recruited a fellow who did it. Hence, he reported his conversation with Toole to Professor Durf’s people. They, in turn, asked their top CIA insider to find out what Toole knew, and then kill him. That was it. Five grand to C
arre, a hundred grand to the American; money well spent, and the two men returned to their day jobs. Chrissy’s address was then faxed to a reliable New York operative.
129: ON THE RUN
During the few short hours that this was going on, Chrissy had continued to chew over any bit of information about financial dealings that she could get her hands on. There wasn’t much because the depression was biting deeper and deeper. It had taken grip with astonishing speed. The world seemed to have just shrugged its shoulders and admitted defeat. Maybe it was the weather. One article did catch Chrissy’s eye. It told how the lucky country was attempting to shrug off the slump more quickly than anyone. Apparently, that brave and individualistic trouble-shooter, Silvester Moorcock, was not taking financial stagnation lying down. Chrissy jumped as she read Sly’s name…The article informed her that he had created a boom town in Western Australia by staggering everyone and starting the construction of a huge leisure complex in the desert. Further to this, it had just emerged that he had gone into co-operation with fellow Aussie Ocker Tyron, who was handling the shipping in of the enormous quantity of material and equipment required to build such a massive scheme from scratch.
Chrissy wondered…
Obviously no way were the world’s financiers going to unite to build a Kangaroo theme park. And, of course, the amount of money that had been syphoned out of the system, both before and during the crash, would have built Disneyland on the Moon…but it was something. It was the only significant financial activity to emerge since the crash and it involved at least two of the figures on Linda’s original list…She was nervous about bothering Toole again, especially with something even less concrete than what she had already given him, but she had to do something with her time. She had given up everything to pursue this investigation. And Toole had said that he would make a call for her…
She picked up the phone. It was a Donald Duck shaped phone which Chrissy had bought because, since all news is bad news, she figured she might as well get it from a cheery source. Cheering up this call was going to need more than a plastic duck…
‘Toole’s dead,’ said Donald, smiling hugely under his little sailor’s hat. The CIA had seen no reason for secrecy and hence informed Chrissy that Toole was dead, having taken his own life. It happened quite a lot in his business.
Chrissy was utterly terrified. She had been speaking to Toole only a few hours previously, there was absolutely no way on earth that he was suicidal. He must have met the same fate that Linda had. But, so quickly. Chrissy could not believe it; they had done it so quickly.
Clearly she had to get away immediately, far away. But where? How? It is difficult to formulate a plan when, all of a sudden, you realize that within minutes somebody may try to kill you. She tried to think as she ran about her apartment stuffing passport and credit cards into a bag; a few clothes, her notes. Her eyes fell on the newspaper she had been reading. West Australia was the single remaining avenue of investigation that remained to Chrissy; it was a long shot but she had to go somewhere. There was a ring at the door. Chrissy froze. It could be nothing; on the other hand, it could be her executioner.
Chrissy’s apartment was on the third floor, as she rushed down the fire escape she could hear the sound of her front door being smashed down. There was a cab rank at the corner of the street. Chrissy jumped in the first one.
‘JFK airport,’ she said.
‘Yeah, yeah. Everybody wants to go to the airport,’ said the cabby. ‘No one stays home no more. Mind you, in this neighbourhood, who can blame them? Blacks, spicks, I ain’t prejudiced, no way, but they’re so dirty, and the mugging and all…’
Even in her desperate state Chrissy realized that she was faced with the classic cab dilemma: do you risk the unpleasantness of telling the guy to stuff it? or do you bite your lip and make non-committal grunts. Normally Chrissy, like most people, would not have had the energy to speak up but she was in a reckless mood. ‘Listen, mister,’ she said, ‘I’m Jewish myself so just can the racist shit, OK?’
‘You’re so right, Lady,’ the cabbie replied. ‘The Jews are the worst, Christ, they should have stayed in Israel. Maybe Hitler had the right idea. Like I say, I ain’t prejudiced, but I do hate Jews.’
Chrissy gave up and tried to plan her escape.
She had just about enough cash for the cab. After that, plastic was her only currency and so it would not be possible to travel under a false name. Chrissy was already beginning to imagine her adversaries as totally omniscient, godlike in their power and penetration — which of course they were. She would have to use her American Diners Card though and hope that it would not be traced, otherwise she would certainly share Linda’s and Toole’s fate.
How alone she felt in that cab on the way to JFK. She knew something; and she knew nothing, and the driver was a bastard. She had no one to turn to, and even if she had, she would not have done so since contact with her appeared to be the kiss of death. That was the real isolation, she was on the run and as long as she remained alive she would not be able to contact family or friends. She had the plague, the black spot, she was a leper and an untouchable.
130: WAITING AND WONDERING
She got into the airport without incident or at least without being killed, because of course her present situation was one extended incident. Having stood in a Stars and Stripes Airline queue she got to a tickets and inquiries person just as she realized that she didn’t really know where she wanted to go. She presumed, correctly, that Bullens Creek would not be a destination covered by an international airline.
‘Yes, how may I help you, my name is Sandy, thank you for flying with Stars and Stripes, we will be pleased to assist you in any way we can, have a nice day.’ The girl in the uniform smiled so wide it was demonic; the parched over-tanned skin, the bones sticking out of the half-starved face, and the smile, a row of gleaming tombstone teeth in a blood red mouth. To Chrissy, struggling to contain her terror, the Stars and Stripes lady was like death itself; a skull in a pretty little uniform. In actual effect she was just a quite good looking woman of thirty-eight, making the major mistake of trying to look like a very good looking woman of twenty-one.
‘Pardon,’ stammered Chrissy.
The Stars and Stripes lady gave her the shorter version of official Stars and Stripes consumer friendly approach. ‘My name is Sandy, how may I help you?’
Chrissy’s mind was blank.
‘Uhm…Oh God…Sandy, have you ever heard of a place called Bullens Creek?’
‘Oh, now, yes I do recall, I’m sure I do…’
‘Great, one ticket please, one way,’ said Chrissy, relief flooding over her. ‘Well, I believe it’s in Texas, now you would want our domestic —’
‘It’s somewhere in Western Australia!’ shouted Chrissy, expecting, every second, a man in a slouch hat to come and shoot her. ‘I want to go somewhere in Western Australia.’
‘Well I’m sorry, Madam,’ said Sandy, switching to the official Stars and Stripes ‘now I hope you’re not going to cause a scene’ voice. ‘But you’ll have to be a little more specific than that.’
Chrissy’s mind was a blank. ‘Listen, I’ve forgotten. What’s the capital of Western Australia? Come on, that’s where I want to go.’
‘Madam, I’m not at all sure you know where you want to go.’ The voice was now pure ‘if you’re a nut I’m calling a cop’. ‘Perth!!’ blurted Chrissy, with blessed relief. ‘I want a ticket to Perth.’ As it turned out, Stars and Stripes only covered the eastern states of Australia and Chrissy was forced to join another queue at the National Australia desk.
She discovered that the first available flight was still eighteen hours away. On inquiry she also discovered that it was unlikely to be full. This was important. She wanted to buy the ticket at the last possible minute, eighteen hours would give them plenty of time to trace her credit card transaction and stop her boarding the plane. The same logic meant that she had to presume that they would be waiting for her at the ot
her end, but Chrissy could only take things one step at a time.
She bought a hat and some dark glasses and sat for fifteen and a half terrible hours in a coffee bar, eating the occasional Danish pastry — which is catering speak for a lump of dough and a blob of sugar and is about as Danish as Tandoori chicken.
Chrissy hoped that they had not thought to check out the cab drivers.
131: A BIT OF LUCK
Smallish, dark complexion, in a hurry?’ Durf’s thug was asking Chrissy’s ex-driver.
‘Hey, hey, hey, what is this, the third degree?’ the driver replied. ‘Sure I picked up a dame, but I just drive them, OK? I don’t feel the need to commit them to memory.’
‘Come on! It’s only been an hour, think! Was it a Jewish woman?’ the thug added. ‘No way, pal, you got the wrong cab, the dame hated Jews. She told me.’
132: THEORIZING
As Chrissy sat, she pondered again, as she had done so often before, what could possibly be the cause of the unholy alliance that she was now quite certain she had uncovered. The swift dispatch of Toole proved to her beyond all doubt that she was on to something very big indeed.
What were they up to? And whatever it was, were they doing it at Bullens Creek? And even if they were and she discovered it, what could she do? Chrissy was quite certain that she would be dead very soon whatever happened.
There were lots of policemen about. How she longed to fling herself on the protection of one, but protection from what? A dinner party in Los Angeles months before? Maybe another one in Singapore? Linda died in a burglary, Toole killed himself. The best she could hope for would be to be locked up as a lunatic. Besides, she had no reason to believe that she could trust the police, her adversaries’ tentacles seemed to be everywhere, her CIA liaison had lasted a matter of hours.