Live, Love, and Cry

by George B Mair

  ‘Maybe so,’ she persisted, ‘but it thrills me to know that these hands have killed. How did you do it?’

  He saw that she was serious, that violence had a fascination for her. And he pointed to his ring, lifting the needle which lay along the limb of his monogram, the ring which was such an improvement on earlier suicide rings and which could kill a man in seconds if the tiny barb punctured skin and the delicate syringe mechanism came into operation. She fingered the tip and her pulse was racing heavily. ‘Do you know, David, there’s something thrilling to know that only a tiny movement lies between me and death. Tell me, how did they die?’

  His voice was thick. The ring produced a condition which was like a major coronary catastrophe, and he swiftly replaced the needle. It was dangerous to have thoughts like these. Some mysterious impulse and Deirdre too might die. At her own hands. And almost by accident. He knew that suicidal impulse which lay close to the surface of many unexpected people and guessed that Deirdre might be one of them. ‘Forget it. But I’ve used it at least twice. Let’s change the subject.’

  ‘No.’ Her voice was firm but small and she ran her fingers along his arms. ‘You could strangle a man, David. Or did you break their necks?’

  A perverted impulse to satisfy her made him reply. ‘Both, and both were killers.’

  ‘Guns?’ she asked. ‘One newspaper article said you could shoot a sixpenny piece at fifty yards.’

  ‘Guns too. Rifles and revolvers.’

  ‘And you carry a gun just like other men carry a pair of nail scissors or a cigarette lighter?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ But now Grant’s hands were tracing the outline of her ribs as she lay back on a chair and pulled gently at the cord of his pyjama trousers.

  ‘And now the rest, David. I want to see what you’re really made of.’ The girl made him feel vaguely embarrassed, and yet he liked the sense of novelty which took him back twenty years to the days when love was still a fatiguing adventure which ended in sadness.

  ‘That’s better,’ she sighed. Her hands dropped down towards his knees and she forced him towards her, burying her face in the warmth of his belly wall while he stood by her side again and stroked the sleekness of her hair. It was the most pure white he had ever seen. And yet it wasn’t really white. More shaded with the yellow of unripe corn, or with the sheen of rose petals.

  His hands unconsciously pressed her head closer to his body and she sighed as he eased her nightdress over her shoulders until it dropped along her arms and locked them around his body.

  ‘Do you like me?’ she sighed.

  Her skin was tanned from top to toe and rich with sunshine. ‘Sure,’ he said thickly. ‘I like you.’

  She unclasped him for a split second and let the nightdress fall to the floor. Her skin was brown all over, but with deeper shadings in her neck and along the line of thighs and legs. There was a crop of freckles low down on her neck and a tiny brown mole on her right flank. She was built like an athlete, without a pound of superfluous flesh, except that her breasts sat firmly high and seemed to burst with the rising tension of pouting crests and racing heart. For a brief second some deep-down instinct was stirred and he knew that they bubbled with the mother-giving protection which every man longed to suckle in moments of loneliness.

  Gently he kissed their firm tips and buried his face in the deep furrow between while she drew him closer and locked her lips in a fierce possessive kiss against his head.

  Grant’s face was burning with longing as he carried her to the low divan bed and dropped her on to the sheets. She was smiling as he lay down beside her, and then, wriggling swiftly she rolled on to her back and clutched him with a passion which made him almost wince as her nails dug into the skin of his neck. Her limbs seemed to enfold him while she roused him to the rhythm of a long-giving love which ended in deep sleep locked in one another’s arms.

  They woke long after sunrise, with warm light pouring through the drawn curtains of a window which looked across blue seas to the hills of Arran. Deirdre’s arm was still lying across Grant’s chest and her hand slowly scraped along his thick morning beard. He was alert in every sense, watching the sweeping outline of her shoulder and revelling in her touch when the phone rang.

  The message was brief. Both Lou and Carol Anne had made statements which tallied. Edinburgh’s Chief Constable was wondering when Grant would report what he was now going to do and the Prime Minister with Admiral Cooper expected to see him in London that evening.

  Grant hung up. One half-hour to dress and then breakfast. He would tell the story later. But it looked like the afternoon plane south for a conference.

  Deirdre held out her arms. ‘With me beside you, David. This is one fish you’ve caught which isn’t going to get away.’

  Chapter Twelve – ‘You’ve given away two aces.’

  The morning passed in a few hours of talk interrupted by phone calls and then Grant reviewed the set-up over an early room-service luncheon. A long rest had broken tension and enough reportage had come in to shape a programme.

  The Prime Minister’s radio speech had been coldly received and the country was on the edge of a hysteria which it had never known even when there had been real risk of death through radiation in the days before the Test Ban Agreement.

  The morning papers were fighting to get events into sharp focus and warning against further outbursts of panic. Special television panels were again listed to discuss the implications of PENTER 15, and editorial comment throughout the national dailies had struggled to be reassuring. For every drug there was an antidote. For every weapon there was a counter-defence—given time.

  But the Press was also warning government of its duty to move sternly against further outbursts of hooliganism. Teenage toughs had rampaged through the West End of Edinburgh and ended by rushing to Carpenter’s house in Morningside where windows had been stoned to smithereens before police had gained control.

  Other policemen had been injured while breaking up disorderly crowds in Princes Street, and pamphleteers had also been quick off their mark in handing out leaflets criticising the freedom of scientists to create weapons which man no longer knew either how to use or how to control.

  A sub-committee to deal with this latest weapon had already been formed by the Ban the Bomb people and a protest march to Edinburgh University was scheduled for the next day.

  The Scottish Secretary had publicly pledged a full investigation, but up to date no one seemed to have tied up PENTER 15 with the military exercise which had ‘gone wrong’ in Perthshire, or with those brief lines which mentioned a visit by the American Ambassador to a country house believed to be a NATO station deep in central Perthshire. Clearly the press magnates were co-operating in the national interest and Grant guessed that the Premier had been busy.

  But bitter comment had come from those countries which had sent artistes to Edinburgh’s International Festival of Music and the Arts. High level political action was threatened and Ambassadors from three states had already lodged protests against the ‘wicked crime perpetrated in Edinburgh against distinguished visiting guests’. Earlier demands for compensation were now being underlined, and the one o’clock news ended with a late flash listing embargoes placed upon Scottish goods by no less than seven European powers.

  Deirdre switched off the radio. It was almost impossible for her to believe that so much trouble had been caused by her own father. And then: ‘This has become as much my story as yours,’ she said. ‘So when do we leave?’

  Grant shook his head. It had now been arranged that Edinburgh’s Chief Constable would also meet him in London, but London would only be a brief port of call before going into another phase of action which might lead anywhere. And none of it was likely to be comfortable, because with SATAN on the alert it was a phase certain to end in violence.

  ‘Please, David.’ The girl sat down beside him and snuggled closely against his shoulder. ‘The chances are that you’ll have to go to Dr. Salamos and I know the
ropes out there.’

  Grant hesitated. Mykonos might still be on the programme. Though all would depend on how much Intelligence had been able to get out of Carol Anne and Lou: or from Mrs. Alistair Hunter and a host of clues gathered up both from Carpenter’s own correspondence and what the Admiral had winkled out of him at the Big House. But his own bet was that Zero was still in Britain.

  Though he also remembered that Zero allowed no one to live who knew his identity and who was not a member of his ‘organisation’. Which meant that both Deirdre and he were under sentence of death. To be carried out more probably sooner than later. On balance he would be easier in his mind if they were together.

  The girl sensed that he was weakening. ‘I can pull my weight if it comes to the bit.’

  He looked her straight in the eyes. ‘Can you handle a gun?’

  She shook her head and he fingered his Parker 61. Motivated by the clip and by a press-button release device built into the ‘top’, he explained that it was the latest development in micro-rockets but disguised as a pen and still not widely known. The charge inside could blow a man’s head off at close range or kill even at a hundred yards. For close work it was unbeatable and with the overwhelming merit of total surprise. She must keep it clipped in a safe place and never be without it night or day. It would be used only in emergency and operated by simply lifting off the ‘cap’ while pointing the ‘nib’ towards her victim. The rocket would be released one second after taking the top off and with more deadly effect than any known revolver. ‘But be careful,’ he added grimly. ‘And use it only as a last resort.’

  She slipped it into the top of her right stocking. ‘Anything else?’

  He pointed to an RAF badge on his lapel. Made only a few months earlier it was also a close-range offensive weapon, with limitations in some respects, but ideal for creating a diversion. Perforations had been worked into the lettering and Deirdre shuddered as he explained that it was really a high-pressure spray for ejecting corrosive acid. The base was fixed to the underside of his suit, but was no more than a few millimetres thick and five centimetres in diameter. The bulge was hardly noticeable even in a man, and against Deirdre’s figure it would be almost completely camouflaged. A flick caused the badge to swivel through ninety degrees and the actual mechanism was simple: a plug which dissolved on exposure to air with a fifteen-second delay before the acid was forced out as a fine spray. It had last been used at almost face-to-face range and the effect had been deadly.

  He was carefully cutting the stitches which anchored it into position and then he handed it over to the girl. ‘Sew that on your jacket while I have a shave, but for God’s sake be careful not to swivel the badge.’ He hesitated. ‘If anyone asks you can say it belongs to your boy friend.’

  ‘But what about yourself?’ said Deirdre. ‘You’ve given away two aces.’

  Grant smiled sourly. ‘I’ve still one or two odds and ends up my sleeve.’ His fingers closed over the matches in his pocket. And he felt the box jar against the killing ring which he still wore on his right hand. With these and fresh containers of nerve gas in the heels of his shoes he was still well enough equipped, even for Zero.

  A thought crossed his mind. From Prestwick it would be quicker and more comfortable to go to London by charter. He had spotted a four-seater Cessna when passing the airport last evening and there was a chance it could be made available. Or if not a Cessna then something else.

  He lifted the phone and almost automatically went through the motions of fixing the flight. His mind was rushing away ahead and he was rearing for action. Admiral Cooper would arrange transport from Luton or Gatwick to the West End and he knew that the Admiral would be in the forefront of his meeting with the P.M. Their collected information from Carol Anne and Lou should by now be in photostat, and copies would have reached everyone who mattered. Of course, it had been impossible to say much on a public line, but he guessed that labs in two countries were now breaking down PENTER 15 into the detail which might reveal its secrets.

  ‘All set, Deirdre,’ he said at last. ‘Taxi in twenty minutes to the airport and then Gatwick. Quicker in the long run. Both the Chief Constable and the P.M. will be there ahead of us and a meeting’s been called for eighteen hundred hours at Downing Street. Seems that the P.M. has washed up any idea of secrecy. And one can hardly blame him, because at least he knows where he is in his own backyard.’ He was systematically packing while he spoke and Deirdre smiled as she watched.

  Every item was top quality and he worked with fastidious care. A spare suit had been cut by Henry Poole. But even more important than the name-tag was the rare Ceemo tweed woven by Elizabeth Perrins in Stornoway, and Deirdre realised that Grant was that rare individual who is not afraid to take a thing which he likes and make it his own. Fashioned especially for women, the suit was the first Deirdre had ever seen made for men out of Ceemo Harris weave and it was all that had ever been claimed for the most exclusive fabric in Europe. The spare tie was gold silk knit and his two Radiac shirts were immaculate in translucent plastic containers. A pair of Church’s Gayton calf shoes were neatly tree-ed and she guessed that his Argyll socks had been bought in the States.

  ‘My goodness,’ she smiled, ‘but you do yourself well.’

  He grinned broadly. It was true and he wasn’t going to deny it. But he took quality clothes for granted and had never been accustomed to anything else. Though he never fussed about them and leaned backwards to be as unobtrusive as possible.

  ‘So you’re an inverted snob,’ teased Deirdre.

  Grant looked at her steadily. ‘Don’t be naughty and start anything. We need all our time. But I’m not an inverted snob. I loathe mediocrity in anything, whether it be crime or food.’ He lifted a spare pipe and thrust it into a side pocket. ‘Made by Loewe,’ he grinned. ‘And, like everything else in here, the best. Which is why we’re going to beat Zero,’ he added. ‘Just you and me.’

  He carefully slipped in one final item—a traveller’s cabinet of Lentheric toilet lotions with talc and brilliantine—and glanced at his watch. ‘Five minutes, honey, so get cracking.’

  His mood was infectious and Deirdre’s eyes lightened. She knew that she would still be scared if she allowed her mind to think about the future, but she also knew that vaguely she felt ‘safe’ with Grant and that if anyone could straighten things out it would be the powerful-looking man who stood grinning at her side.

  ‘What makes you so happy?’ she asked. ‘It almost seems as though you’re enjoying yourself.’

  He smacked her bottom. ‘Four minutes. We can talk in the plane.’

  And it was, after all, the Cessna. But engine noise was too loud for easy conversation and Grant contented himself with giving an address. His flat in Kensington Gardens was always kept ready for use and it was as good a place as any to spend the night. But Deirdre would wait for him in the Savoy. Whatever happened there would be no tragedy during what might be a long meeting with the ‘high-ups’. Afterwards he would collect her there, fix a swift meal in the grill-room and then taxi back to the flat. His housekeeper had been warned and the place would, by now, have been filled with flowers.

  A department car was waiting at Gatwick and they reached the Savoy for late afternoon tea: better time than they would have made from Prestwick to Edinburgh by car and a Vanguard or Britannia to London airport. Grant’s final instructions were crisply to the point: ‘Stay here and don’t budge . . . not for anything or anyone. See you between eight and nine.’

  The same car dropped him at Number 10 and the door opened almost in the same second that he rang. There were only three people in the narrow little street and none of them even looked round as he walked up the short flight of steps.

  The place had been brightened up after a recent decorating job and he was shown into the Prime Minister’s study. Admiral Cooper was already seated, and his old chief, Sir Jonah Lyveden, was standing by the window fidgeting with a key-ring. Edinburgh’s Chief Constable slouched, it s
eemed uneasily, deep in a worn leather armchair, and the Premier himself was waiting with outstretched hand in the middle of the room. But his manner was professionally formal and Grant sensed that there had been fireworks.

  ‘Sit down, Dr. Grant.’ The Prime Minister’s voice rapped with authority. ‘And remember that this is not NATO property. Nor is it wired or bugged or anything else’d for sound by enemy agents. So we can talk freely. And, first, we shall have a report from the police covering statements made by the people you so expertly incapacitated last night. Although,’ he added caustically, ‘from what I have heard, you chose, as usual, to adopt unorthodox tactics.’

  ‘To meet a most unorthodox situation, sir,’ snapped Grant. ‘And you may remember that Admiral Cooper told us something about this Prestwick set-up only a short time ago, so I knew a little about what to expect.’

  The Prime Minister looked at him coldly. ‘Meaning that ADSAD had advance knowledge of something: even if it allowed Professor Carpenter to be kidnapped under the very nose of its most professional agent.’

  Admiral Cooper struck viciously at a match and sucked at his pipe. ‘David Grant knows his job. May we let him hear what the Chief Constable has to say?’

  The Prime Minister opened a drawer and lifted out a sheaf of black papers. ‘Photostats of your reports, Chief Constable. But let’s go through them systematically and you can interrupt to expand any point at any time you see fit.’

  Grant had the knack of reading line by line and his eyes raced down the pages for the one thing which mattered. And then he found it. Lou had talked. Five months earlier he had collected various loads of powder from a small laboratory system constructed in the basement of Carpenter’s own home. There had been at least ten tons and it had been dropped into two different reservoirs during four separate flights. The stuff had been stored in soluble containers each weighing one hundred pounds and Lou believed that Carpenter had manufactured it all himself. The Professor had been excited, but had stressed no urgent need for secrecy, though Lou had had enough sense to keep things to himself and a few cronies. The containers had been taken by lorry to Turnhouse, where Carpenter had given out that he was experimenting with a new pesticide.