Grant listened, shocked by the Admiral’s imagination. Just under two months had passed since he had escaped from Moscow with Russia’s leading young ballerina, and already Maya had appeared both at the Opéra and in London. They had agreed that her career came before marriage and although they were passionately in love neither was the marrying kind, so for some years at least they would live their own lives and neither would interfere in any affair which might, for a few weeks, amuse the other. He had been with Jacqueline on the previous evening for the first time since leaving Moscow, and then only because Maya had been entertaining an American who wished to arrange tours in the States.
He shook his head doubtfully. ‘Maya won’t be so easy to deceive and how are you going to fix identification in daylight?’
Miss Sidders seemed almost to read his thoughts. ‘You want to keep your mistress out of this?’
‘Possibly. But she cares for me very much and the important thing is that I don’t think she’ll be satisfied with a casual glance.’
‘Then we’ll meet that situation when the time comes, but as things stand the Admiral’s plan is simple. You must phone that secretary girl and drop the instrument. Then you will swallow this capsule, which should put you to sleep and slow down respirations to something around six per minute. Body temperature will also fall a couple of degrees and you ought to stay like that for about eight hours. The thing works in less than fifteen minutes. It is now almost four o’clock and you must be on your way to the funeral parlour before six. Colonel Fengsted ought, already, to have had his orders and Admiral Cooper may well have arranged for some other official witnesses to keep the police under control. But remember,’ she added, ‘only Fengsted will know that you aren’t really dead and not even the undertakers will get an inkling of the truth.’
‘How will that be arranged?’ Grant was professionally formal. A drug which acted so dramatically might be a worse risk than any bullet.
‘A supposed relative who is a retired nurse will arrive almost immediately, either here or at the funeral parlour, and ask to prepare you. But it will be me,’ she continued, ‘and I won’t leave until everything is under control. A wire from someone in London will also come through to this address requesting that your body be flown back for burial in England, and since the department will take care of all formalities you ought to be home before teatime.’
‘Inside a coffin?’
‘Inside a coffin,’ agreed Miss Sidders, ‘and if you don’t like the programme now is the time to say so.’
‘One question only. Is my future with ADSAD so important that these risks are worthwhile?’
Miss Sidders softened. ‘Yes. Though you have only my word for it. But Admiral Cooper has a mission ahead by comparison with which your last trip to Moscow may seem rather straight-forward.’
‘Provided that this goes to schedule.’
‘It will.’ There was a self-confidence about Miss Sidders which could be infectious. ‘And then there is another angle which may amuse you,’ she added slyly. ‘Have you ever read your own obituary? Because if not you can see what the papers have to say on Monday morning. But now, your phone call. Let’s get on with it.’
Jacqueline de Massacré was said to be a member of one of France’s older families. And it was probably that, plus some minor graft, which had landed her a job at Supreme Headquarters, because although SHAPE had become infiltrated with a mixed bag of glamour-girl secretaries or interpreters, most of them could at least do their job with average competence. But Jacqueline was a dreamy-eyed dunderhead whose professional qualifications rated no more than bottom grade as stenographer. Nor did the fact that she was bilingual take her very far in a world where linguists were part of the office scenery.
On balance she caused more trouble than she was worth, but it was her very woolly-mindedness which made her so ideal to Grant in his posting as Deputy Adviser Medical Aspects Physical Survival.
DAMPS was only a front for more important work under the Admiral, and a more intelligent secretary would long ago have wondered what he did to justify his existence. As it was, Jacqueline filed reports on new antibiotics and up-to-date treatments for radiation sickness, memoranda relating to fallout and digests of white papers issued by the World Health Organization with a slap-happy abandon which was compensated only by her beauty. She now modelled herself on the sulky type of sexless beatnik. And nothing could have been more deceptive, because, as Grant well knew, she was the most passionately immoral creature he had ever met.
Her number was ringing out, and he could imagine her lying between silk sheets, her tousled head of mousy brown hair straggling across the lilac pillow-cases embroidered with tiny roses. Atrocious things, he half-smiled, but somehow part of the mixed-up creature who was so feminine behind the scenes and so neutral on parade.
‘’Ullo. M’m’selle de Massacré speaking. ’Oo is it, please?’ Her voice was more husky than usual and he sensed a note of alarm which vaguely worried him.
‘David Grant. Listen Jacky. I’m sorry to bother you at this hour but I’ve got to see you at the flat here right away. At once, savvy?’ He became urgent. ‘I’ve been hurt, so get weaving tout de suite.’
‘But David . . .’
‘Drop the phone,’ snarled Miss Sidders.
‘Very urge . . .’ He allowed the instrument to fall, and scowled as it bumped against the leg of his Louis Quinze ormolu table. ‘How’s that?’ He glanced curiously at Miss Sidders as she covered the mouthpiece with a cushion and weighted it down with a quilt.
‘And here is the capsule. But get into bed within five minutes of swallowing the thing, though I would suggest that first you go to the toilet, because you’ll be immobilized for at least the next eight or nine hours and we don’t want you to feel uncomfortable if you wake up.’
He returned to find her sitting at the bottom of the bed examining the stiletto. ‘Get in between the sheets and then grip this as though you were pulling it out of your chest.’ She watched critically as he held the weapon with both hands. ‘Splendid. And now give it to me.’ Grasping only the blade with her gloves she laid it carefully down, and then, at last, smiled. ‘Soon you ought to feel sleepy. But don’t worry about anything because I’ll be very careful not to do any important damage when I prick your chest, and you’ll be well looked after by either Colonel Fengsted or me until we land in England, where you will find that any trouble we are taking will be fully justified.’
Grant felt that the capsule had begun to work. Miss Sidders’ words were slurring and her silhouette quivering against the wall behind. His limbs felt almost as though they were floating on air and nothing seemed to matter any more. His last memory was of the woman fumbling with his pyjama jacket as he sighed deeply and fell asleep.
Chapter Two – ‘Guinea-pigs can’t be choosers'
Shimmering green letters seemed to leer at Grant out of the stifling darkness which surrounded him. He could hear a throbbing noise and faint vibrations quivered into his body from the hardness upon which he was lying. Still drug-taken and disorientated, he made to sit up, his knuckles and forehead jarring against the darkness in front until confused memories of what had happened shocked him back to full consciousness: Miss Sidders and her flute loaves; Jacqueline’s throaty voice and pouting lips; the door-handle turning and a man dead upon his bedroom floor. Cautiously he felt around with his hands until everything clicked into focus and the green letters before his eyes sharpened into a message which he could understand. ‘DON’T PANIC. ALL WELL.’ He could even recognize the hand which had laid on the phosphorescent paint and the peculiar twiddle which Miss Sidders gave to every capital ‘A’ which she ever printed.
He was in a coffin. The noise and vibrations were from the engine of a light-weight aircraft, and presumably they were pointing for Britain. Two small round holes had been drilled through the lid and others along the sides, enough to allow ventilation without being conspicuous, and he had been dressed in a tweed suit which he could
recognize by touch.
But best of all he appreciated the thought which had written a message inside the coffin lid to a man who might waken up, confused with dope, and claustrophobic until he had collected his wits.
Forcing himself to relax Grant retreated into that private emotional escape hatch which can be developed by some men who have long lived close to danger. It involves a fatalistic acceptance of circumstances which can no longer be controlled and a will-power which can ignore discomfort or risk of death by allowing memories of happier things to swamp all consciousness.
Step by step, kiss by kiss, he relived his first night in Turkey with Maya Koren after their escape from Moscow, and he was recalling every moment of a weekend in Istanbul when suddenly the vibrations altered and the drone quivered into a noisy purr as he felt the aircraft dip downwards and feather its engines. He loathed both landing and take-off, but touch-down was smooth, though the machine taxied for only a short distance before lurching to a halt as brakes were applied a shade too violently. And then he heard Colonel Fengsted’s parade-ground voice. ‘Easy now, chaps. Let the hearse get in a bit nearer. No sense in wasting energy.’
The coffin slid backwards and was lifted out of the machine. A whiff of petrol fumes drifted through one of the air vents and for a second he thought that he was about to sneeze, but at the critical instant the coffin again tilted downwards and he could almost picture the scene as it slipped into the back of the hearse.
‘Fine. And now I’ll follow behind with nurse. Kensington Gardens. You know the way, of course?’
The hum of voices was cut short and a moment later the car glided off over smooth tarmac. The drug had left him with a depression, and the claustrophobic darkness was stretching his nerves to near breaking point. Even the pin-points of daylight had begun to annoy, almost hypnotizing with their glinting intensity as, shivering slightly, his thoughts drifted back to the war when he had been smashed to pulp as a trainee pilot. Perhaps he had never got over the shock. Perhaps that was why he was never really happy in an aircraft. But if there had been no smash his life might have been totally different, ending, like enough, in a raid over Germany . . . or Burma. On balance it had probably been a blessing, at least he had been able to take a medical degree and enjoy some excitement working for UNO. But what a mess Katanga had been! And the Congo as well. What a mess everything had been at one time or another. Everything except some of his love affairs. Maya was the loveliest and the best. Though Jacqueline stood alone. Opposites in so many things, he wondered how they would behave if ever they met.
And then the car stopped, Fengsted giving orders as the coffin was lifted out and carried into the house. Upstairs for one flight, a pause at the door and home at last.
The hum of voices continued nearby until he felt like screaming. But at last there was the familiar creak of a loose floorboard and the thud of a closing door. Seconds later the coffin lid was unscrewed by someone who fumbled with her tools, and he grinned with satisfaction as it was lifted off and he saw Miss Sidders, now dressed as a nurse, standing beside the bed. She glared at him for a moment, but then flushed self-consciously. ‘All right. Laugh if you like, young man, but I’m out of practice with screwdrivers. One can’t be good at everything.’
It was the most human thing he had ever heard her say, but he knew that she detested sentiment and that they were both strung up with tension. A wrong word could cause an explosion. Slowly he lifted himself out of the coffin, his limbs stiff after hours of close confinement and his head still muzzy with dope. ‘What about a cup of tea?’ he muttered, feeling his way to a chair.
She studied him intently. ‘How do you feel?’
‘Wonky. Though it should pass off. Guinea-pigs can’t be choosers.’
‘What do you mean, guinea-pigs?’ she snapped.
‘Look, ma’am,’ he sighed, ‘it was just a joke. I woke up a long time ago. Which suggests that our people hadn’t figured out the dose well enough to know how long that thing would work. Therefore, whatever was used must be a new drug. Moreover, if it does what you claim for it the damn thing must be pretty dangerous and I guess it can’t have been used very much, so that makes me a guinea-pig.’
He was again feeling light-headed and breaking into a cold sweat when Colonel Fengsted joined them. ‘Glad to see you, David. Just got rid of the funeral chaps.’ His expression suddenly changed and he thrust Grant’s head between his legs. ‘Easy. You look as if you’re going to pass out. The stuff we gave you drops blood pressure. You’ve probably got some postural hypotension as a hang-over. Lie down for an hour or two and get hot tea inside you.’
Between them Miss Sidders and the Colonel got him back on to the bed, loosened his tie and shirt and opened the windows until Fengsted had given him a quick once-over, checked his heart and nodded reassurances. ‘You’ll be O.K. in an hour or two, my boy. And here’s your tea. Going to leave you alone, let you have a sleep. But Miss Sidders’ll waken you for a bath before dinner and after that someone’ll tell you all about it.’
There was a quiet confidence about the man which was reassuring and an hour later Grant was sleeping naturally, a glow of health returning to his cheeks, while Miss Sidders sat by his bedside, knitting and watching him like a hawk.
Less than twelve hours had passed since they had met in his Paris flat, and in spite of a life passed on the rim of high adventure Miss Sidders felt that for once she had had enough. The drug was still in the early experimental stages and it had worked only too well. He had gone out like a light, and a second or two after she had pricked him over the heart with the stiletto he had almost stopped breathing. But Jacqueline de Massacré had arrived before she could do anything to try to revive him and she had had to hide in the dressing-room. Although even then noting that the little minx had her own key to the flat and that she could walk in as she pleased, which was a piece of irresponsible carelessness on Grant’s part, and one for which he would later have to give an explanation to the Admiral: if he lived.
The girl had rushed straight into the bedroom but had been too stupid to phone the police, and it had been left to Colonel Fengsted, arriving about ten minutes later, to call the gendarmes. Which had given her time to escape from the house only through a window by way of the fire-escape and make herself conspicuous to any night bird who happened to be watching.
The whole exercise had gone wrong, and timing misfired for over two hours until she had returned to the flat, this time dressed as a nurse and passing herself off as an aunt, claiming the body on behalf of the family whilst Fengsted argued with the law. But French police can be persistent and several phone calls to VIPs had been required before they finally allowed her to arrange an ambulance to carry the body to a funeral parlour, where, for ten mille, she bought the right to dress her nephew. And what a condemnable business it had been to get his legs into trousers or fix the knot in his tie! Not to mention buttoning shirts or pulling on Chelsea boots without a shoe-horn. While every few minutes she wondered if he was really going to die and whether or not she would be justified in giving him a shot of coramine as a stimulant.
But worst of all had been the arrival of Maya Koren, to whom Fengsted had broken the news at her flat. Tactfully he had put the idea into her head that she ought to visit him, as it was part of the Admiral’s plan that she should be seen to be grief-stricken by everyone in Paris . . . or elsewhere.
If Grant was to be passed off as dead the alibi had to be absolutely watertight and a distraught mistress was exactly what they needed to ensure success. But she had fallen hook, line and sinker, arriving with the Colonel just after Miss Sidders had finished her work, Grant’s chin held in position by a bandage, a fragment of cotton wool inside his lips and a coin lying over each eyelid. His body had been covered with a white linen sheet and a brass crucifix laid on his chest, but only Miss Sidders knew that his arms and hands were also strapped to his sides to prevent movement, and that if the girl looked at him for more than a few seconds she might detect the f
aint throb in his neck which showed that he was really still alive.
Miss Sidders fidgeted uncomfortably at the memory and dropped a stitch as she remembered how badly Maya had taken it.
And then the coffining! She scowled. The Colonel, fortunately, had assisted with that and helped her to lift him into the miserable black box which was all that the place could offer.
Thank God it was over! She sighed heavily, wondering if anything she ever did was really worth the trouble. What could any one man, or woman, do against the sort of campaigns which faced the Free World today? Even ADSAD seemed, at times, to be almost helpless when matched against organizations which could afford to spend as much as six hundred million pounds in every year on combined intelligence work, corruption and sabotage. And then she pulled herself together. Defeatism never helped anyone except the enemy. Bath-time for Grant and then dinner!
Half an hour later she listened at the bathroom door as he splashed in the water. A natural sleep had made a world of difference and signals from Paris confirmed that the Admiral would arrive in time for breakfast.
Chapter Three – ‘The name Grant is mud from White House to Downing Street’
Admiral Cooper is a third-generation American with a profound knowledge of men and affairs. His crisp nautical language and leather-wrinkled face, an abrupt manner and endlessly smouldering pipe, would also make ideal material for any cartoonist, but few newspaper men know of him as anything more important than a shore-side seaman, probably eking out a pension with cosy jobs rope-pulled for him by cronies in the international set. Not more than five top people were then briefed on the extent of his real authority, and the Admiral’s obsession with anonymity ruled every aspect of work by his team of hand-picked agents, not one of whom knew any other within the security network through which he tried to protect the Western Alliance.
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