Live, Love, and Cry

by George B Mair

  K for Kathie had touched down on the edge of the stone scree. C for Cissie was hovering almost overhead. Subject number two seemed to be nearing the end. Face burns were slight, but his clothes had almost been scorched to ribbons and his hair incinerated. He was making no effort to resist as the pilot from K for Kathie anchored him to C for Cissie’s rope-ladder.

  Grant saw the Ambassador’s fingers tremble with excitement as C for Cissie began, slowly, to rise. And then there was a ripping blast which rocked even the Big House as K for Kathie exploded like a bomb. A spurt of flame seemed to engulf everything, but seconds later Grant heard the pilot of C for Cissie swearing with a solidly blasphemous abandon which was music in his ears. He was still alive. Though God alone knew how. The net-ladder now dangled over a pall of smoke. The aircraft was gaining height and Grant saw two figures bobbing below. ‘Wing Commander Donaldson still alive, sir. Jumped for the ropes in time. Very narrow shave. C for Cissie still airworthy but controlling small fire with sprinklers. Propose make immediate landing at house. Suggest assistance release subject of rescue and help Wing Commander before touchdown possible.’

  Tension within the room suddenly relaxed, though the Admiral still watched anxiously as the ’copter lumbered slowly nearer. He could still see one figure clinging to the curtain of rope and sighed with relief as it thrust a leg between strands and anchored itself by weaving arms and feet into the meshes.

  ‘Your hunch seems to have been right, Dr. Grant.’ The Prime Minister lit another cigar and turned from the window. ‘It will be interesting to hear what the man has to say for himself.’

  Grant forced a smile. There would be big trouble if it was an innocent hill-walker or some interfering ass who had refused to observe ‘keep out’ notices. Or a press man with wind of a story and alert for a picture of the politicians.

  The roar of feathering blades outside brought him back to immediate reality and he glanced for instructions towards the Admiral. The old man nodded. ‘Get the gen on everything, David. Every-thing, you understand. And then report. We’ll be in the parlour. And damn well thirsting for news, so move at the double.’

  ‘One point only,’ said the Prime Minister. ‘Can we check this fire before it gets wholly out of control? May I suggest that we get foam or something on to it as soon as possible.’

  Grant nodded. But he would be surprised if the forestry commission and fire-brigades weren’t already on their way. Plus a score of press men and photographers, not to mention outside television. This party had hit the headlines and the Premier would be lucky if he got out of it with no publicity. The best thing the man could do would be either quit now or stay inside and get back to the Borders during the night.

  Sergeant Bryce of the Black Watch had once served with Grant in Korea and Grant thanked the impulse which had drafted him to the Big House for the weekend. The two men reached the lawn together and less than a minute later watched Wing Commander Donaldson unfankle himself from the ladder below C for Cissie. He looked caustically at Grant and then forced a smile. ‘The last party I had was Cyprus 1964. Shockin’ way t’spend a Saturday.’ He glanced curiously at the figure behind him. ‘Poor chap. Imagine bein’ burned and half drowned on a lovely day like this.’

  Grant caught him as he fainted and moments later a stretcher party carried him to a field ambulance which had been rushed to the spot. ‘How about this other one, sirr?’ Bryce rolled his ‘r’s like a Scottish comedian and had the slightly bandy legs of one-time Glasgow slumdom.

  The man was alive. His face was scorched and he was suffering from shock. There was also a rip in his trousers with blood oozing from a long gash down the front of his leg. But Grant guessed that he would come round with routine attention. ‘Bedroom on the first floor and a first-aid dressing on that wound,’ he said quietly. ‘But keep your trap shut about this. Remember the three monkeys. See, say and hear nothing if you want to stay out of trouble.’

  Bryce nodded and lifted the unconscious figure like a baby, his kilt waggling defiantly as he carried him inside.

  ‘And keep an eye on him,’ snapped Grant as he briefly examined the limp figure stretched out on the bed. ‘Clothes off, hot-water bottles, electric blanket, dressing to the leg and a half-bottle of whisky. But civility all the way. No rough stuff. When you’ve brought him round ring the bell and I’ll be with you.’

  But first the newspapers, he thought grimly, as he reached for the phone. Better get in first. Army exercise disrupted by heather fire. Incendiaries ignite Perthshire moor. He could see the headlines and thanked Providence that it was Saturday afternoon and too late for the Sundays to make a meal of it. He also played it down with both STV and Scottish BBC, did some explaining to the local police and got fire-control into action all within half an hour.

  The pilot of C for Cissie was still waiting outside for orders when Grant joined him for interim report. ‘Congrats, Flight Lieutenant,’ he said. ‘A George Medal it is. And well earned. One of the nobs saw what was going on and put in an instant recommendation. The Wing Commander gets one too. So that’s a trip to London before Christmas.’

  The Flight Lieutenant frowned. ‘Ever seen a man burn alive, sir? If I’d had any sense I’d have made a quick landing and taken him aboard properly. Could have got away with it.’ He paused. ‘I think.’

  Grant smacked into his parade voice. ‘Forget it. We’ve laid on transport to Perth. Send in formal report to your O.C. and apply for forty-eight hours’ leave.’ He hesitated. And then: ‘Flight Lieutenant.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘You will discuss this with no one. Not even your wife. And you will keep your commanding officer posted in re addresses during your forty-eight. Security may wish to underline what I’ve just been saying.’

  He turned abruptly away. The tinkle of a bell in the kitchen showed that Bryce had done the trick. On his way to the bedroom he called at the parlour. ‘Sorry, gentlemen. But our prisoner has surfaced. Possibly Admiral Cooper would like to handle matters himself.’

  The Admiral shook his head. ‘Over to you, David. And report here once you’ve made him talk. The Prime Minister can leave only after he has all the facts at his fingertips.’

  The Premier looked at him steadily. ‘And when the Admiral said “all”, Doctor, he meant all. Understand?’

  Chapter Five – ‘What sort of people do you think Her Majesty’s Government are?’

  Sergeant Bryce met Grant at the door of the bedroom. Their man was conscious but saying nothing. Pockets were empty and there wasn’t even a name-tab on his suit. ‘A tough egg, sirr,’ he ended, ‘but if ye’re wanting him to talk did ye ever try that old Korean trick wi’ a bit wood under the nails?’

  And then they were in the room. The man stared at them impassively. His face was scorched and hair frizzled against the scalp, but he was alert enough, and when Grant checked his blood pressure it was one hundred and thirty-seven with a pulse around eighty. Which was not bad for a character who must know he was on the spot. And suggestive that this was no innocent hill-walker or news hawk.

  A thought had crossed Grant’s mind and at least it was worth trying. ‘A terrible business,’ he smiled. ‘Too bad things went wrong with that service exercise.’

  The man stared at him blankly. But Grant sensed that he was surprised and piled it on with a trowel. How the locals hated the military messing about at weekends and how bad it was for the birds. How the shooting had gone back ever since the Services had taken over and the grouse were nesting elsewhere. He explained that he was a doctor himself, invalided out of the RAF with a rotten chest thing. But making the best of it in the country.

  His fingers were exploring the man’s limbs and at last he stood up.

  ‘Sorry to be so long-winded. But just trying to take your mind off what must have been a real narrow squeak. This leg looks nasty, so we’ll get you into Perth and have a decent surgeon sew it up in the nursing home.’

  The man smiled vaguely. ‘Thanks very much.’

&n
bsp; His accent was that nondescript brand of English which a man uses who has travelled much and spoken to many people in many languages. He apologised for the bother he was causing and asked what had really happened. His manner was perfect. He remembered nothing before wakening up on the edge of a hill stream surrounded by burning heather. Had forgotten even his name. Where was he and how had he got there?

  Grant laughed. ‘I’ll leave you with Bryce. A sergeant in the Ladies from Hell. Black Watch. It was his people who fired the moor during their exercise. Least he can do is look after you till we lay on an ambulance.’

  He nodded briefly. Bryce was quick on the uptake and they had lived close to each other for long enough for the man to have some idea of how his mind worked. But again it would depend on Professor Juin. If he had the one gimmick up his sleeve which was now needed more than anything else.

  Once more in the parlour he explained the set-up. Smith had said something about six o’clock at the Salutation Hotel, Perth. It was a lead. And of course they would use it. First Sunday of every month. At six o’clock when the password was to ask the barman for a double Clanrana. But that was several weeks away and right now there was an easier way out, given the necessary apparatus.

  A recent advance in electronics had produced a device no larger than a walnut but which could throw a radio signal several hundred yards. If such a thing could be rushed up in time the man could be taken to a private home in Perth where at least one surgeon who knew how to keep his mouth shut would embed it inside the subject’s tibia. With the wound closed and healed the man wouldn’t suspect a thing and yet he could be traced anywhere, at long range, and with absolute safety.

  ‘I know what you mean,’ said Juin. ‘But our nearest specimen is in Paris.’

  ‘One moment,’ snapped the Prime Minister. ‘I’m not quite with you. What have you in mind?’

  Juin drew a diagram on the edge of a piece of paper. ‘We have an electronic device no larger than that. And roughly the same shape. It is motivated so that its signal can be picked up by radio. You will appreciate that the difficulty in shadowing any criminal is the question of maintaining contact. But if such a device is put into his luggage or built into a shoe, for example, it is simple enough to follow him. Even if the suspect was lost in a crowd it would be necessary only to follow the intensity of his signal. The nearer the man, the louder the buzz. If he went into a building the room could still be located by using the same technique and if two men were taking cross-readings it would be impossible for them to lose.’

  He looked approvingly at Grant. ‘The idea of putting the thing into the man’s leg bone is excellent. And if properly done there would be no pain.’

  ‘But,’ he added quietly to the others, ‘in due course it might lead us to a superior.’

  ‘And where do you keep this thing?’ asked the Admiral.

  ‘Paris,’ said Juin briefly. ‘Though it could be here within three hours if we landed a fast jet at Turnhouse. I’ll have a dispatch rider meet it at the airport, if you fix clearance.’

  The Ambassador had been unexpectedly quiet ever since C for Cissie had limped home with two near casualties dangling from her undercarriage. The set-up appalled him. It had been difficult enough to establish an alibi at Gleneagles without returning at midnight. And he knew that it would be a miracle if he managed to break the cordon of police and newsmen who must now be trying to find out what maniac had dropped incendiaries on a September afternoon.

  But risk of publicity apart he wanted more than anything to contact the President. Washington would be outraged when it discovered that Whitehall had caught them with their pants down and sneaked in a British agent right under their noses. God alone knew what other material the man might have picked up, and what with Britain sucking up to Cuba, being at loggerheads with official American policy over China and criticising her general morality in everything from obscene literature to integration it was a cinch that a personal meeting would be the only way to report on this latest secret weapon. Because PENTER 15 was just that. And nothing less. A secret weapon which could be exploited enough to give the Reds a clear long-term racial preponderance and overall tactical advantage vis-à-vis the entire Free World if they handled it properly. And once they got the recipe it would be impossible even to know when it had been used. Until, he thought viciously, every second married couple discovered that babies had become a thing of the past. He turned to the Admiral. ‘This man upstairs. Who is he?’

  ‘No idea, sir.’ Grant answered an unspoken order. ‘Says he remembers nothing. No means of identifying him. One way is to stick to his tail after he leaves here. And chances are he’s too experienced for that to work, so the electronic approach is our best solution.’

  The Admiral laid down his telephone for the second time. ‘Paris fixed and Turnhouse notified. Anticipated time of arrival twenty-fifteen hours and just about right from the surgeon’s angle. David’s got a pal up here who dates back to UNO days together in the Congo. Juin will give the anaesthetic and David can assist. Neither theatre staff or patient should suspect a thing.’

  Grant smiled. The old man was always at his best when there was some organising to be done with top people at top speed. Glare from the fire was beginning to fade and it began to look as though everything was gradually getting under control. Until he glanced at the Ambassador. He was fidgeting and his jaw seemed set for trouble.

  He took a chance and spoke to him direct. ‘What about you, sir? Can we fix a bed for the night?’

  The Ambassador lit another cigar. ‘I hope to see our President tomorrow. He’ll want to know about Carpenter. Washington will be grateful for a detailed appraisal in writing. Meanwhile I’ll be obligated for a thumbnail character sketch.’

  Professor Juin turned in his chair. The man’s manner was now professionally formal. He looked towards the Admiral, who stiffened slightly and took over. ‘This is a NATO project, your Excellency. But as a gesture of goodwill I can say that he is aged fifty-two, married and with one daughter. He is also a bone-headed Scot who’ll listen to advice from no one. But he is tops in his own line of country and fortunately for us he also has several character weaknesses by way of compensation.’

  The Ambassador crossed his legs and showed an expanse of tanned skin above a short nylon sock. ‘How about the weaknesses?’

  ‘Drinks too much whisky. Runs a woman in Prestwick, distributes drugs and probably smokes reefers himself.’

  ‘Pardon,’ said Juin. ‘But I’ve known the man for years. The worst you can say is that he drinks heavily.’ He paused and flushed slightly. ‘I’m sorry. But what you say can’t possibly be true.’

  ‘Which only shows how good he is at putting across a public image.’ Grant saw that the old man was going to go flat out and give them it all on the chin. ‘The truth, Professor, is quite different.’ He spoke with a curiously grim satisfaction and every word was loaded.

  Edinburgh was one of the main distributing centres for drugs in Western Europe. More than seventy per cent of all hashish, opium and marijuana was smuggled through its port of Leith. Western world drug traffic was controlled by one single ring of tycoons and it was policy to keep their own back door clean. That being so, there was no real drug problem on a national scale within Britain. There wasn’t even one single Edinburgh detective charged with responsibility for becoming an expert in drug traffic. And in Glasgow there was only one sergeant and one constable. The big men wanted no Interpol investigations being carried out on their own back door. So Edinburgh was drug-free and clean. More or less. But contact men were vital. And they had all to be above suspicion. A few lesser fry had occasionally been caught. One had got two years in 1964 for handling a package of Mary Jane. But even that hadn’t hit the national headlines.

  The big questions were still wide open. Who ran the drugs? Who were the above-suspicion contact men? How did they distribute?

  ADSAD had been working overtime, ever since Juin had laid information about the new contr
aceptive, and Carpenter’s dossier now ran to over thirty thousand words. But it had unexpectedly led them towards the dope racket.

  Carpenter was a fanatic. To test his contraceptive chemicals—and there had been several different substances over a six-year period—he had needed women. Broad-minded women who were exposed to risk. And he had got on to them at Prestwick, where there was always a supply of high-quality tarts to cater for the airport.

  It had started normally enough when he got involved with a female lab technician in the university. When she became pregnant Carpenter had fixed an abortion. Later he had settled her into a flat near Prestwick airport where she had a job as clerkess. She seemed to have stayed loyal enough for a year or two, but went off the rails after meeting a Middle Eastern Air Line pilot who smuggled stuff out after sorting in Edinburgh. She fell for him, hook, line and sinker, became his mistress and through him was introduced to a sexy night life of strip bingo, strip poker, Prestwick roulette and dope.

  ‘What is Prestwick roulette?’ The Prime Minister was staring at the Admiral in frank disbelief.

  The old man smiled. ‘A new party game which started in Prestwick. Partners face one another in circles and move in opposite directions until someone cuts out the music. Same idea as the old-time Paul Jones only they don’t dance. Just a new approach to a public orgy. Shed a garment every time you stop. The types who wear least get caught first. I’ll leave the rest to your imagination.’

  But all this had gone on without Carpenter knowing much about it until the woman had told someone that she had a foolproof contraceptive. Rumour had got around and Carpenter had been asked to produce supplies. He was crazy about his mistress, but in any case he was wanting scope for as many ‘field tests’ as possible without alerting his medical colleagues. And what better than a high-class brothel only seventy-odd miles away? He took to going down for the odd weekend. His girl friend introduced him to a market and he fell for it. The women were all sophisticated, apparently well bred and good-humoured. Naturally they gave him a VIP routine and leaned backwards to oblige in everything. Naturally enough he also enjoyed it and gave them something in return every month. None of them suspected that one dose was really enough, or that he had only fobbed them off with phoney capsules after the first dose. Or that he wanted to check up on results. Old Carpenter was too cute to lose a good thing once he had blundered into it and by now he was living like Nero in his heyday. A real Jekyll and Hyde. Strict formality and hard work twelve days a fortnight and then a forty-eight hour pass on the tiles.