Mr. Calder & Mr. Behrens

by Michael Gilbert

  The staff car took them westward towards Holborn, and stopped in a quiet side street. The General unlocked a metal grille which led into a small concrete yard. On the other side of the yard was an insignificant looking concrete building, the size of a large tool-shed. Using a second key, the General unlocked the door of this, and Calder saw that it housed a lift. They stepped inside. The General pressed a button, and the lift started slowly to descend.

  “How far does this go down?” said Mr. Calder.

  “A hundred and fifty feet. The people who built them had to get through the London clay and into the rock.”

  “There’s more than one, then?”

  “There are six in the London area and eight in the home counties. Here we are. Good morning, Sergeant-Major! This is Mr. Calder. You have his clearance?”

  “Just came through by telephone, sir. Shall I open up?”

  “Please.”

  The sergeant-major evidently released some switch under his hand, and a steel partition behind him slid up. He then rose to his feet, saluted the General punctiliously, and ushered him and Mr. Calder in, remaining outside.

  Mr. Calder’s first reaction was disappointment. He saw that the General was smiling.

  “Well,” he said, “what did you expect?”

  “I don’t really know,” said Mr. Calder. “Masses of complicated machinery. Shining steel. Winking lights.”

  “You’ve been reading too much science fiction. This is a communication centre. The machinery it controls is all over the place. The Norfolk coast, Dartmoor, the lochs of Scotland. This place is in contact with them all. Triple cable, buried in concrete. That set of telephones links with the Defence Ministry and the PM. The other lines are to service headquarters. And to Strike Force.”

  “And the system is in operation?”

  “Naturally. The exchanges at the other end are permanently manned.”

  “And either of us could give the order for a nuclear attack right now?”

  “I could. You couldn’t,” said General Garnet with a grin which emphasised rather than softened the fact that he was talking about the possible destruction of millions of human beings. “There’s a code-word which has to precede the order. It’s changed every day. There are ten people at any one time who know it.”

  “Nine too many,” said Mr. Calder.

  “Perhaps. It’s a question of immediacy. Suppose the enemy started a conventional air raid. Enough to block roads and cause confusion. If only two or three men knew the word for launching Counterstrike, they might none of them, temporarily, be in a position to do it. And ten minutes could make all the difference.”

  Mr. Calder thought that it was one of the most disturbing conversations he had ever had. He was not a man who suffered much from nerves, but the smallness of the room, the enormous physical presence of the General and the hundred and fifty feet of earth on top of him were bringing on the symptoms of claustrophobia.

  He said, “You talk about the enemy, General. Had you anyone in mind?”

  “Naturally. I mean the Chinese.”

  This forthright statement took Mr. Calder aback even further.

  “Do you think they would?”

  “I put the point to Litman at the meeting this morning. Do you know what he said? He said, ‘Their civilisation is two thousand years older than ours. Why would they want to destroy the world?’ The only answer I could think of was a rude word of one syllable beginning with ‘b’.” The General rocked with sudden laughter at the recollection, then said, more seriously, “Of course they’d do it. The moment they were convinced it would pay them. They’re logical. A damn sight more logical than we are in the West. They know that the only thing which counts in world politics is results. Legality and illegality don’t come into it. That’s a conception confined to a country with laws. It cuts no ice in the international sphere, because in that sphere, there are no laws. If the Chinese could blast the rest of us off the face of the earth and get away with it, they’d do it tomorrow. The rate they’re growing they’d repopulate the world quick enough on their own.”

  “But they can’t get away with it?”

  “Not as long as Counterstrike is manned here and in the States. Our detection apparatus are far more sophisticated than theirs. We could wipe them out, every mother’s son of the thousand million of them. If not by direct blast, inevitably by nuclear fall-out.”

  “Do you know,” said Mr. Calder, “this seems to me to be about the most dangerous thing I’ve ever heard of. Ten men know the code-word. If one of them was a traitor, or even a fool, he could start a nuclear holocaust.”

  “He’d have to get down here first.”

  “If I had the keys, I could do it easily enough. I’d simply step out of the lift and shoot the sergeant-major.”

  “That wouldn’t get you very far. Did you notice that he didn’t get up when I came in?”

  “Yes. It seemed rather curious.”

  “He was making quite sure of our identity. He’d been given instructions from the Ministry of Defence to let the two of us in. If anyone turned up without that instruction – even me – he wouldn’t let them past. And he was sitting with his hand on a spring loaded lever. If he let it go, the door into here would have been permanently locked. And I mean permanently. It would need a breakdown squad to get it open.”

  “I see,” said Mr. Calder, thoughtfully.

  “The situation is becoming ludicrous,” said Mr. Fortescue. “None of our normal Intelligence agencies know anything. The international situation generally has never been quieter.”

  Mr. Calder said, “Things seem to be hotting up in China.”

  “Internally, yes.”

  “I see the legation has been attacked again. They caught the First Secretary in the street and beat him up.”

  “I’m very sorry for the First Secretary. But it doesn’t alter the situation. Someone, for some inexplicable reason, has made up their mind that we are going to be subjected to a nuclear attack. And – possibly by accident, but more likely deliberately – they’ve allowed the news to leak out. With the result that the pound is under severe pressure, the bottom has fallen out of the stock market, and now the allies are beginning to get worried. The American ambassador saw the PM yesterday.”

  “And everyone,” said Mr. Calder, “is damn certain who’s responsible. If it wasn’t for the law of libel the papers would print what’s being said in every club in London. That Litman started the rumour – helped by that pea-brained wife of his – so that his friends in the City and in Wall Street could make a killing on a bear market. And it’s got out of hand.”

  “You realise that we’ve no option. We’ve got to do something about it,” said the General.

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” said Litman.

  “You’ve read Foster’s report, I take it.”

  “Yes. I don’t necessarily agree with it.”

  “Foster says that the attacks on British lives and property have now reached a point where it goes far beyond casual hooliganism.”

  “As I said, I’ve read the report.”

  “He thinks it’s an organised campaign, designed to provoke retaliation, which could, in turn, be used by the Chinese as an excuse for hostile action.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t agree with him.”

  “For God’s sake,” said the General savagely. “What do you know about the Chinese?”

  “At first hand, nothing.”

  “Well I do. I’ve fought with them, as nominal allies, in Burma. They’re treacherous bastards. Do you realise that they – or some friend of theirs,” as the General said this he put both hands on the desk and his knuckles showed white, “have fixed things so that an actual date for their attack is now on everyone’s lips? July 17th.”

  Litman said, “If this is a deliberate plot, which I don’t believe, why on earth would they warn us of when to expect the blow?”

  “The oldest trick in war. Get your opponents’ eyes fixed on one particul
ar date. Then hit him the day before. A nuclear attack on this country will start on July 16th. I am completely certain of it.”

  When the General had gone, Arnold Litman’s hand went out to the green telephone on his desk, which carried the direct line to Downing Street. He hesitated for a long time before he picked it up.

  “Our instructions,” said Mr. Fortescue to Mr. Behrens, “have been changed. They are now categorical, and quite clear. We are to find out by any means we choose to employ, from what source Interstock first received information that a nuclear attack was possible.” He paused, and repeated, “By any means.”

  “A few days ago,” said Mr. Behrens, “I contrived to run into Grover Lambert. Our acquaintanceship dates from 1940, when we worked together at Blenheim. I suggested that we might have dinner one night at the Dilly. I told him he would meet some of his old friends. Sands-Douglas and Happold particularly. He jumped at the idea.”

  “Then I suggest,” said Mr. Fortescue, “that the reunion takes place as soon as possible. Today is July 10th. We haven’t a lot of time.”

  As old Mr. Happold explained to Grover Lambert over the port in the small private dining room, the Dilly Club was a very useful pied-à-terre for impoverished senior members of Oxbridge and the Bar. Having been handsomely endowed by that eccentric millionaire, Professor Goodpastor, it could afford to limit both its charges and its membership.

  “It is open to all senior members of Oxbridge, I suppose,” said Grover Lambert.

  “In theory,” said Mr. Behrens, “it’s open to anybody. There’s only one limitation. All the existing members have to approve a new nomination.”

  “That must make it rather a close circle.”

  “It’s very cosy,” agreed Commander Sands-Douglas. He was large, red-faced, and had a mop of snowy-white hair, in curious contrast to Mr. Happold who looked like a very old snapping turtle. “The hard core are people who worked together in Intelligence during the war. Most of them came from the universities and the Bar. Incidentally, it makes you eligible – if you could stand the food.”

  “It was fairly plain,” agreed Grover Lambert politely. “But more than compensated for by the wine. I think that Corton was the finest I’ve ever drunk. By the way, didn’t I recognise your wine waiter?”

  “Applin. Sergeant Applin when you were at Blenheim.”

  “Circulate the port, Behrens,” said Mr. Happold. “It’s taken root in front of you.”

  As Grover Lambert took up the decanter his hand slipped and he put it down, spilling a few drops.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Stupid of me. It must be the heat.”

  “It is warm,” agreed Mr. Behrens, studying his guest’s face, which was red and sweating. “Would you like to sit outside for a moment?”

  Sands-Douglas said, “Let me give a hand,” and both men helped Grover Lambert carefully to his feet, supporting his weight between them. That weight became heavier as his knees buckled and his eyes turned glassy.

  “Put him on the sofa,” said Behrens.

  “I thought for one terrible moment,” said Mr. Happold, “that he was going to upset the port. How long have we got?”

  “The stuff would normally knock him out for fifteen minutes. Then he’d start to come round with nothing worse than a shocking hangover.”

  “Better lock the door,” said Sands-Douglas. “Applin wouldn’t let anyone in, but you can’t be too careful. What next?”

  “What I’m going to do,” said Mr. Behrens “–prop his head up, would you, Happold—is to put a regulated dose of scopalaminedextrin into him. It should wake him up enough to make him talkative, but not enough to remember things afterwards.”

  “Inject him, you mean.”

  “Good heavens, no,” said Mr. Behrens. “What’s he going to think if he wakes up with his arm full of holes? It might get the club a bad name. No, the modern method is to inhale it.” He was breaking a capsule under Grover Lambert’s nose as he spoke. “It’s quicker, and more effective that way.”

  The unconscious man’s eyelids fluttered. Mr. Behrens perched on the couch beside said in a loud voice, “Wake up, Lambert. You are Lambert. Grover Lambert.”

  “I am Grover Lambert,” said the man sleepily.

  “You work for Interstock.”

  “I work for Interstock.”

  “Your directors have told you to sell your British holdings.”

  “Sell British holdings.”

  “Why? Why are you to sell British holdings?”

  “War. Because of war.”

  “Who told you war was coming?”

  “Who told me war was coming.”

  “Who told you?” said Mr. Behrens, very sharply.

  The young man behind the counter in the travel agency looked superciliously at Mr. Calder, and said, “I’m afraid we aren’t allowed to give information about other customers.”

  Mr Calder leaned forward across the counter, and spoke without heat. He said, “You have a telephone. That is the private number of Scotland Yard. You can ring it, if you wish, and ask for Extension 05. That is Commander Elfe, head of the Special Branch. He will confirm my authority.”

  “Well—” said the young man, uncertainly.

  “But if you hold me up for more than five minutes, I will have this branch closed for a week whilst we investigate your reasons for obstructing the police.”

  “I’m sure I didn’t mean to be obstructive.”

  “Then answer my question.”

  The young man turned to a filing cabinet behind him. His hand was shaking slightly as he pulled out a folder and opened it. He was not the first man to find Mr. Calder unnerving. He said, “General Garnet booked the tickets through this agency two days ago.”

  “For his daughter?”

  “Yes. Air travel. London to Montreal. Montreal to Ottawa. Rail to Pettawawa. That’s quite a small place, outside Ottawa. I believe it used to be an army camp.”

  “Singles,” said Mr. Behrens. “Not returns.”

  “That’s right. We thought it a bit odd.”

  “It would have been odder still if he had booked her a return ticket,” said Mr. Calder and left the shop without further comment.

  Mr. Fortescue looked at the calendar on his desk. It was held by a large white china cat, with a blue ribbon round its neck, and it showed July 16th. He glanced at his watch, picked up one of the telephones on his desk and dialled a number. The voice at the other end said, “CMP Duty Officer.”

  “Please fetch Colonel Jackson.”

  It took a few minutes to find Colonel Jackson.

  Mr. Fortescue said, “Colonel Jackson? Fortescue here. Send an officer and a sergeant – the officer must be of the rank of captain or above to detain Captain Terence Russel. He’s military secretary to General Garnet. You’ll find him in his room at the Defence Ministry. The charge will be under the Official Secrets Act. I’ll have the details in your office by the time you bring him back.”

  “Good afternoon, Sergeant-Major,” said the General. “You look worried. Nothing amiss with your family, I hope?”

  “No sir. Not that I know of.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Now, if you wouldn’t mind—?”

  The sergeant-major looked even more worried, but remained seated his right hand out of sight down by his side. He said, “You know the drill, sir. I’m not allowed to let anyone in, even yourself, sir, until I’ve had a telephone call from headquarters.”

  “Quite right. But this is a surprise visit. To keep you on your toes.”

  “I see, sir.”

  “Then unless you think I’m an enemy agent in disguise, perhaps you’ll be good enough to open the door.”

  “I can’t do it, sir.”

  “Are you questioning my order?”

  “Not without authority.”

  The General smiled, a ferocious grin which lifted his upper lip and showed a fine pair of incisor teeth. He said, “You have a telephone by your left hand, Sergeant-Major. Perhaps you’d care to
ring my assistant, Captain Russel. You have his number. Well, what is it?”

  “It’s the lift, sir. It’s just gone up. I expect this will be your authorisation.”

  The General said thoughtfully, “Ah. Yes. I expect it is. That will save us all a lot of trouble, won’t it?”

  After that they waited, in silence, for what seemed to both of them to be an uncomfortably long time before the lift reappeared and Mr. Calder stepped out of it. He said to the General, “I’m sorry I’m late. My car got held up in the traffic.” And to the sergeant-major, “There seems to have been some break in the line between the Ministry and this post. They thought the General might have some trouble in getting in, and sent me after him with a written authority.”

  The sergeant-major read the document carefully right through, and then said slowly,” I see, sir. Yes. That clears everything up. I’ll unlock the door.”

  “After you, General,” said Mr. Calder.

  The door closed behind them as silently as it had opened. The General sat down on the edge of the table, with his back to the door, swung one leg a couple of times as though to shake the stiffness out of it, and said, “Now, perhaps, Captain Calder, you will be good enough to tell me the truth. Since no-one knew I was coming here, how could they have sent you after me, with a written authority?”

  Mr. Calder was standing, his feet apart, his arms hanging down at his sides. It was an attitude of apparent, but deceptive relaxation.

  He said, “I took the liberty of following you, General. As soon as we found out you were planning to send your daughter away to Canada. Even before that, some of the things you’ve been doing and saying have been worrying your superiors.”

  “My superiors are a lot of weak-kneed old women who’d be scared if you came up behind them and said ‘boo’.”