‘And now — ’ said Tirov — ‘I regret — ’ He sat down facing Holmes. He offered a cigarette from a silver box which stood on the table. Holmes refused. Tirov took one and lit it thoughtfully. ‘It is a pity,’ he said, ‘that we could not have handled this between ourselves. I know your reputation. You know mine. Perhaps together we could have done business.’
Holmes waited.
‘You don’t mind me saying that?’ went on Tirov. ‘Diplomatic conventions are the bane of my life. All these conventions. The mistake was to take it to the ambassador. For myself, I would have welcomed closer cooperation between our two countries on this matter.’ Tirov raised his glass. ‘To better relations between the peace-loving peoples of the Soviet Union and the United Kingdom.’
‘To better relations.’
‘All this — ’ Tirov put down his glass ‘ — has been most refreshing.’ He shook his head from side to side as though considering some vast complex of experience. He gave the appearance of great sensitivity and depth. ‘It is out of routine: that is what I mean. So much of life is routine. Your visit was so unusual, to my way of thinking, so right — if I am using your language correctly?’
‘You are using it perfectly.’
‘I have been fond of your language for a long time, ever since I wished to read Shakespeare in the original.’ Tirov’s eyes were benevolent, heavy-lidded, half-closed. ‘To be or not to be, that is the question … whether it is best to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune … you see I am as good with the original as with the translation which I learned at school. The good relations that exist between our two countries — ’
‘Speaking as a lover of Tchekhov,’ said Holmes slyly and courteously, ‘we have a great deal in common.’
Tirov began to speak enthusiastically of Tchekhov and Shakespeare. They discussed the Moscow Arts Theatre and Koteliansky. They drank two more whiskies which were even larger than the first. Holmes was puzzled. Tirov discussed cultural affinities, became ebullient, red in the face. ‘You must come to the Marinsky, you must see the Circassians … ’
Holmes said he would and looked at his watch.
‘These diplomatists,’ said Tirov scornfully, ‘if they would only leave these things to us. That was why I thought it was a mistake in the beginning to approach the ambassador directly. I am afraid,’ he said, ‘your mission has failed, Mr Holmes.’
There was nothing to be done. Tirov escorted Holmes out into the hall. They went down the stone steps together, on to the gravel. The sun had long set. The air smelt cool and the earth damp.
‘It smells as though it has been raining.’ Tirov sniffed the air. ‘Perhaps someone has been using a water sprinkler.’ The sky was glossed with reflected light from the street. Holmes was silent. A taxi was coming along the road. Tirov stepped out and raised his arm. The taxi stopped. Holmes was about to say goodbye when Tirov spoke. ‘I found it interesting that your Mr Shepherd and our Miss Lydoevna were so absorbed in the affair,’ he chuckled.
The dark shape of Tirov moved, lights glinted where his shadow had been, the sound of his footsteps on the gravel receded into the distance. His voice came back, faint, benevolent, mocking, paternal, through the darkness.
‘Good night, Mr Holmes.’
CHAPTER TEN
Three I D
Holmes went straight to the Yard. The taxi took some time to get there but he was unaware of time. He was groping his way through the turmoil of his experiences, attempting to select and retain those that were significant. The process was still incomplete and disturbingly confused even by the time he had reached the office where Morrison, in shirt sleeves, was at work. He had news of Mrs Shepherd.
There was a way out through the back garden,’ said Morrison. They found her heel marks. She went through the woods and picked up a chauffeur-driven car with another woman and they drove to Uplands. We’ve got two men watching the place. I’m not taking chances. What the devil do you think is going on there? I’d like to know what the hell they’re after. Why a chauffeur-driven car?’
‘Who was the other woman?’
‘Not certain. Probably her sister.’
‘Probably,’ said Holmes. ‘Yes and no. Probably not,’ he relaxed in a chair. ‘May I,’ he said, ‘momentarily divert your attention to something else?’
Morrison was alarmed. ‘I’m busy.’
‘I think,’ murmured Holmes, ‘that it is important.’
‘To do with this case?’
‘Yes.’
Morrison’s alarm subsided. ‘I thought you meant something else. Go ahead. Got an idea?’
‘Several.’
‘Really?’ Morrison was pleased. He had great faith in Holmes’ ideas. Morrison sat back and searched for his pipe. ‘Go ahead,’ he said. Tell me.’
‘First of all,’ said Holmes, ‘the diary.’
‘Shepherd’s diary?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about it?’
‘How long was Shepherd in North Africa?’
‘Nearly three months.’
‘He probably met dozens of people.’
‘Hundreds.’
‘Some of them he made appointments with; perhaps days, even weeks, ahead?’
‘Most likely.’
Holmes nodded. ‘He made an appointment to see this man Anderson. He put it down. Three o’clock. A — for Anderson. That’s all. Not J A for John Anderson or T A for Tom Anderson. Just A. And another thing. He doesn’t say where, or what for. He doesn’t put down anything like mil strat, shall we say, to remind him that he wants to talk to Anderson about military strategy. No. Just A for apple and he knows it means Anderson and he knows what he wants to see him about so he doesn’t put it in the diary.’
‘Agreed,’ said Morrison. ‘Practically all his appointments were recorded like that. Not that there were many. Most of them he would carry in his head. On the kind of job on which he was engaged the less you put down on paper the better.’
‘Then is it not,’ murmured Holmes, ‘extremely odd, to say the least, that on the next day’s appointment, with Dixon, he did not content himself with putting down D for Dixon? Why did he break his rule, the rule of anyone in the security service, to put the very minimum of information in writing? Why A for Anderson and not D for Dixon? He goes further, Joe. He puts down the initial. I D. Then, as if that’s not enough, he actually goes on to put down an abbreviation, Distbn, which more or less anyone could guess was distribution — ’
‘I know,’ said Morrison, ‘I thought it odd. But there’s no regularity about it. Most of the appointments are single letters. But there are two others which are not.’
‘But, my dear Joe,’ insisted Holmes. ‘By putting down distribution after I D he gives the game away. Either he no talked with I D about distribution or else it is a message that I D is the man who is responsible for the distribution.’
‘We’re checking on both possibilities,’ said Morrison.
‘Splendid,’ said Holmes. ‘Have you thought of a third?’
‘Third what?’
‘A third possibility.’
Morrison stared into the younger man’s eyes and took in their amusement and something which appeared to be a mocking glint. Morrison took the pipe out of his mouth and laid it carefully in the glass ashtray. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll buy it. What is the third possibility?’
‘The third possibility,’ murmured Holmes, ‘is absurd. It is a contradiction of the obvious. Not a good phrase. I can’t think of a better for the moment. It is — is it not? — obvious that you put appointments in your diary, or hat sizes, season ticket numbers, telephone numbers, addresses — all that sort of thing — and no one ever thinks of looking in a diary for anything else, do they? I mean — you don’t send messages in a diary, do you?’
‘A message?’ said Morrison. He stopped. ‘Here — ’ he said, excitedly, ‘let’s have a look.’
This time he took out the original. The diary was a pathetic object,
crumpled, water-stained. Morrison found the entry and they stared at it together with a new interest.
‘Written in a hurry,’ Holmes said.
‘Yes.’
‘As though he was under pressure?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’ve not been able to check with Dixon that they actually met?’
‘All this is true — ’ began Morrison. He paused. Well — he said ‘ — what message? What does it mean? Who’s it to? He scratched his head. ‘It’s unlikely. But it’s not impossible If’ — he went on, with sudden enlightenment — ‘it was a message, then it needn’t have been written on that day at all.’
‘I don’t think it was,’ said Holmes. ‘I think it was written on the first page at which the diary opened by a man trying desperately to write down something coherent before the drug overpowered him.’
‘Then — ’ said Morrison ‘ — that would be, presumably — ’
‘Sometime after meeting Nina Lydoevna and between then and falling into the river.’
‘So he got something from Nina Lydoevna — ‘
‘I think he got a great deal. God knows what. But he came back from Africa to see her. He wouldn’t come back all that way for nothing.’
‘This is putting a new light on Shepherd.’
‘It’s about time,’ said Holmes, savagely. ‘If I’m right,’ he went on, ‘somewhere there, on the river bank, Shepherd knew, with a final absolute and terrifying certainty what he was up against. He would have got to a telephone. But he couldn’t. The drug was on him. So he wrote it down. He wrote it down first. Then he made the effort. His senses were going. He did not know where he was. He began seeing things. He began to walk up the road to get to a telephone. Only it was not a road. It was the river.’
Morrison was sceptical. He repeated, ‘It was not a road, it was the river V in a way which meant he was highly dubious about the whole thing.
‘Use a bit of imagination,’ pleaded Holmes. ‘We are dealing with hallucinations. The drug is an hallucinogen.’
‘Don’t keep on saying hallucinogens and hallucinations,’ said Morrison. ‘I know precisely what you mean. It makes you see things. All the same — ’
‘Read Pendlebury,’ said Holmes.
‘I’ve read Pendlebury.’
‘You see fountains of colour, landscapes that are not there, mountains of coloured crystal constantly changing shape. The illusions are superimposed on the real world. You hear voices. It is like an opium dream. But much clearer, more vivid. The dream world becomes much more real than the world in which you move.’
‘All this I accept. It’s in the file. But — ’
‘Then for heaven’s sake,’ said Holmes, ‘use your imagination. Think of the mystics and their vivid dream world. Think of Francis Thompson. Think of St John of the Cross. Think — ’
‘Never heard of’em,’ interrupted Morrison, gruffly. Then he grinned. ‘What did they all do when they were at home?’
‘Saw a ladder pitched between Heaven and Charing Cross,’ said Holmes, quoting, unconscious of bathos. ‘And — ’ he added with more emphasis ‘ — walked on the water of — what’s the name of the place? Gennasareth! That’s it. They walked on the waters of Gennasareth and found that it was the waters of the Thames.’
‘Until they sunk?’ said Morrison; and saw the point. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘It’s not impossible. You do see queer things. I knew a man once who used to see red spiders. He kept a fly-swatter by him and would occasionally swat something on his desk. Nobody else could see anything. But he did. He said if he hit the spider and killed it, it would disappear. But if he only wounded it then it would crawl about the desk trailing blood. After that it couldn’t be killed. It wouldn’t disappear either, once it was wounded, however much he hit it. It would just go on crawling about or sit glaring at him. He could hit it a dozen times like that. It didn’t make a scrap of difference. He was stone cold sober too. But he couldn’t get rid of the spiders.’
‘Did he buy a new desk?’
Morrison shook his head. ‘They took him away in the end.’ He was frowning because he was thinking of something else. ‘Yes,’ he said. He had not been distracted. ‘With the drug,’ he said, ‘it would be a chancy business.’
‘It would be an accident,’ said Holmes. ‘The purest of pure. Either he would get out of the car — and in that case he might have avoided it if there hadn’t been a river — or else he would be driving along the motorway at ninety miles an hour plus and he would hit a flyover. A pure accident. No one to blame. No trace of the drug whatever. Accidental death.’
The idea of a message — ’ began Morrison, going off at a tangent. ‘However — ’ He frowned and stared. ‘3 I D. Distribution. Distribution by 3 I D? Who is 3 I D? You’d think he’d have made an effort to make it clearer than that.’
‘He could have written it out in full,’ admitted Holmes. ‘But was he physically able to do so? I rather doubt it. In any case the words are long. The army abbreviates them. That is, if they are the words I think they are.’
There was a long silence. Eventually Morrison said, in a low voice:
‘I beg your pardon? You know what they are?’
‘I think so. Yes. I hope that they’re not, of course, but I haven’t been able to find any other explanation.’
‘What the devil are you talking about?’ exclaimed the exasperated policeman. ‘Come on, Holmes. Don’t mumble things — you hope so, but you don’t think so l — say it outright!’
‘Not yet,’ said Holmes. ‘You see, Joe — ’ he went on with a burst of frankness ‘ — that was Shepherd’s trouble. He had to have proof before telling anybody. The simple answer is that nobody would have believed him without it. I’m not sure you’ll believe me.’
‘Go on.’
‘Why was Shepherd in Africa?’
‘To investigate this report about the drug factory.’
‘I know that, but the overall purpose, the talks with Anderson — remember the talks with Anderson, Joe, they’re important — and the background to it all.’
‘The fear that one of the big powers was getting ready for a takeover in Africa.’
‘What’s a quick way to a takeover?’
‘There are several,’ grumbled Morrison. He disliked being cross-questioned. ‘A coup d’état. Is that what you mean?’
'And suppose the established government was a Commonwealth government and appealed to Britain for troops to help quell the revolution?’
‘Damned if I know what we’d do,’ exclaimed Morrison, irritably. ‘One never seems to know anything these days after Rhodesia. But all right! I suppose if a Commonwealth government in Africa did appeal for British troops to come in I suppose we would send them.’
‘The other side would suppose that too,’ said Holmes. His eyes gleamed. ‘The arrival of British paratroops would be decisive. No African rebellion could stand up against that. They couldn’t risk that, could they, Joe, whether or not they came in under a United Nations ticket?’
There was silence.
‘Failure?’ said Morrison.
‘The failure of British troops,’ said Holmes calmly. Morrison spluttered with indignation. ‘Don’t be silly,’ went on Holmes, brushing aside Morrisons’ protests. ‘I am asking you to follow up an idea — how to neutralize an invasion. Think, Joe; think hard, think like an African.’
‘Not sure I can,’ said Morrison. He was stiff with Scots pride.
‘No?’ said Holmes. ‘Then let me do it for you. You are an African freedom fighter, Joe; and let me tell you — ‘ continued Holmes ‘ — it’s not entirely different from what some of your noble Jacobite ancestors were doing with Charles Stuart against the English in the ’45, savages that they were, clanging their claymores at Prestonpans.’ Morrison looked pained and was about to interrupt but Holmes went on. ‘Nor is it any good,’ he said, ‘basing your campaign on the conventional techniques. Naturally you’ll have studied the classic guerrilla campaigns in
Malaya and Indonesia and French Indo-China and Vietnam, but from your point of view, Joe, theirs are examples to be avoided rather than followed. The last thing in the world you would want would be a prolonged campaign in the bush which would take years to win. You would want something quick, sudden, and entirely unexpected.’
‘Well — of course.’
‘So you would look for something new.’
‘I suppose I might,’ said Morrison, cautiously and a little uncertainly.
‘I wonder — ’ mused Holmes, ignoring him — ‘where the idea would have come from first?’ He sighed. ‘Probably we shall never know. It could have come from anywhere. Why not? There’s been enough information published on the subject. Lots of strategic studies on the theory of incapacitator drugs as war weapons have been published. There’s nothing exclusive about the theory. Pendlebury told us that. The information, in other words, is available. All that matters, then, first of all, is getting the basic idea into your head. But once there, Joe, once you had been sold on the idea, it would blossom and develop into the simplest and yet the most devastating method of discrediting the Europeans that had ever been devised. The fact that it would be a new idea, absolutely untried in practice, almost inconceivable to our conventional military way of thinking would be the most attractive part of it; because you, as an African, Joe, would be searching for the unorthodox, the unusual, the unexpected, the stroke of genius that would incapacitate your enemies without them knowing it. Why should not you expect to have the inspiration of a great strategist, Joe, simply because you are an African and until now there has never been an African who was a military genius? Why should you not, Joe, be the first military genius to come out of the new country — using the new weapons?’
The Shepherd File Page 11