by John Creasey
Matt felt the throbbing of the engine, louder and fiercer. Turning his head, he could see the Forest Hotel, ablaze with light, and yet it looked so far away that it seemed in a different world. Lauriston drew nearer. Conne fell away, on the right. The lights of Winchester itself became quite bright. Road speeds were so trivial against air speed, even the comparative slowness of the helicopter. Eighty miles an hour meant twenty miles in a quarter of an hour, and that was the time it should take to get to Winchester. They had been airborne for fully five minutes now; a third of the time. The forest seemed to be thinning out below them, they saw more cottages with lighted windows, and could make out the paleness of meadows and of fields of corn. Matt could discern great orchards, too.
Palfrey sat helpless and still in the seat next to Matt. The others were sitting against the fuselage, and neither of them could move or speak. There was only the throbbing roar for company: that, die hope that they would land safely and the fear that they would crash.
Matt kept thinking of people.
Yvonne.
Kathleen O’Shea.
The Larsens.
Hill, crashing in that little car.
The Carters. Why had they been killed? Had it been because Mrs. Carter had seen Jane Hill examined by Dr. Korven, and talked to her husband about it?
Why had this part of England been selected?
Why had the plague been released here? How was it carried? Where did the mosquitoes breed?
He thought of Yvonne again, her cold aloofness, the fact that she had hardly spoken to him, and had only once looked as if she might relax a little and smile. Then he pictured her as she had tried to get out of the car but had been nearly helpless, with that red smudge on her forehead.
Stop thinking about that. Winchester lay ahead, and Lauriston only a mile or so to the right. He could pick out the street lamps, the lighted windows and, to his surprise, the great sheds of the giant canning factory and freezing plant, the arc-lights which floodlit the plant, whenever it was on night shift. It was now. What had he been told by that gatekeeper? No night shift? He’d been wrong then, they were undoubtedly working a night shift, he could see the lights, the bright windows all over the place. It could never have been busier.
He glanced at Palfrey.
Palfrey was actually moving his lips. Palfrey was completely under the effect of the plague, his body was absolutely still, he could not turn his head, but he was moving his lips. Was he making any sound? The engine would drown it, anyhow, there was no way of making sure.
Palfrey actually leaned forward a fraction of an inch in his seat, to look out and down towards the packing station, and the great expanse of the Wide World Foods buildings. He seemed to be nodding his head.
The others were as still as death.
What was Palfrey trying to say?
Palfrey’s mind was crystal clear. He had realized the truth the moment he had seen the glow of light over the Wide World plants: truth which he had suspected when he had realized that many of the Wide World staff lived at the Forest Hotel. Domminy’s treachery had virtually proved the case, for Domminy had been with Wide World since it began its experimental work, had fought for Government subsidies to finance it.
There were Wide World Canning plants, freezing plants and packing plants all over the world; and depots for their canned and deep frozen foods were everywhere.
Everywhere.
The company’s fine fruits, fine vegetables and agricultural produce of remarkable quality were in every town. It was almost possible to hear Domminy talking about the finest foods grown with the best fertilizers to produce the best results, on the radio, on television, in the House.
And he, Palfrey, could not talk or move to write, and did not know how long it would be before he could.
If he recovered as quickly as Matt Stone, then he might be in time.
Whatever Domminy was planning for the next stage would be started by now; it might be too late to stop him.
The Cabinet could not yield to that ultimatum; no Government could. There might be consultations with other Governments, talk, half promises; and some small countries might want to yield. But in a world without arms any group of people with arms could dominate the rest.
The military must raid Wide World.
And here they were, approaching Winchester, still at about five hundred feet. The lights of the city showed vividly. He could see those clearly enough, but could not see Matt Stone’s face, because Matt was out of his range of vision. He could see Matt’s hands and the complicated control panel.
There was the main street, wide at one end near the statue of King Alfred which looked like a toy soldier. Matt was slowing down. He was turning the helicoper. He was heading for the statue, and seemed quite confident.
Matt said: “Going down.”
He moved the control stick and felt the helicopter shuddering as it dropped straight down out of the skies. He could see people scuttling away from the pavements. One moment the statue was in sight, the next it vanished. Big buildings were on one side and several cars parked near it. He thought that he could see die shimmering waters of a river, but could not be sure.
If they overshot, if they crashed into one of the buildings, into a shop—
Palfrey felt the helicopter jolt upwards, and knew that he was flung upwards a little, but he wasn’t flung out of his seat. Nor was Matt Stone. The whole machine was quivering, but it wasn’t moving, it hadn’t crashed.
If only he could speak.
Hadn’t the injection worked?
Chapter Twenty-One
THE PLANT
Every light that could be switched on was on in the Lauriston plant of the Wide World Food Corporation. The night shift had been summoned that afternoon for special work in all departments, but there was particular concentration in the despatching of canned and frozen goods. Practically nothing else was going out. More and more huge insulated cans were being loaded at the loading platforms. Special trains had been ordered, and wagons were being filled by gangs of men working steadily and eagerly. In the landing fields the Corporation’s aircraft were being made ready to carry the frozen and canned foods to all parts of the north and Scotland, to Ireland, and to parts of Western Europe.
The men looked unreal with the pallid green lights on them. They worked with a steady rhythm which was helped by the music from loud speakers placed at vantage points all over the plant, inside and outside; they were far enough from Lauriston to cause no nuisance. Here and there, men were humming.
The office buildings were in the middle of the plant, a modern block, housing a daytime staff of nearly a hundred; now, only a skeleton office staff was on duty, but the managing director’s office was occupied.
Everyone who passed it could see the lights at the windows.
Inside were three men and a woman.
The office light fell on the woman’s light auburn hair and the freshness of her complexion; she was no more than twenty-three or four, and if anyone of Palfrey’s men saw her he would know that her name was O’Shea. She sat at the side of the biggest of the three men, a massive, barrel-shaped man with a conical head and small, pursed lips; the kind of man who might be dismissed as an intellectual lightweight because his forehead seemed so small.
The men each had a telephone in front of them, and two were speaking into the telephone, one in Arabic, the other in Hungarian. Each spoke swiftly, and each made notes against a typewritten sheet in front of him. The girl, Maureen O’Shea, was writing numbers by the side of entries on other typewritten sheets. She looked as cool as she was lovely. Now and again she glanced at the fat man, whether he was looking at her or not.
Once she said: “How much longer will it take?”
“My dear, don’t ask me,” Rondivallo said absently. “We should have had much more time, but who could
know it? Eh? Who could know?” He was studying a map of the world, which was pinned to a board in front of him. Every now and again he glanced at one of the papers on either side, from which the men were working, and made a little red dot on the map. From time to time he smoothed down his forehead and ran his hand over the bald scalp, making a little hissing noise; he had only a fringe of black hair at the temples and the back of his head. He wore pince nez, and kept wrinkling his nose.
The two men finished one conversation and immediately started another, each into a telephone, each in a different language, now Spanish and Swedish; their grasp of each language was quite remarkable. The Spanish-speaking man finished first and put the telephone down, but immediately picked it up again, and said:
“Yes … Canada, yes.” Now he began to talk in English, with a very slight accent. “Yes, the supplies are on their way to you,” he said. “You need only the spawn of course, you will find that the mushrooms are quite remarkable.” He did not smile, his expression was one of extreme earnestness, as he went on: “Operations are likely to begin tomorrow evening and should start in Ottawa, Winnipeg and Vancouver … No, not elsewhere until you have further instructions. Thank you.”
He rang off; picked up the telephone again, and began to speak in Chinese; now he spoke more slowly, as if at last there was a language with which he was not thoroughly familiar.
This time he put the receiver down more slowly, looked up, then ran his hand across his forehead and left a streak of finger marks across the film of sweat. The other man was still speaking. Rondivallo had pushed his chair back. He yawned, and tapped his mouth with the tips of his long, pale fingers. Maureen O’Shea jumped up quickly.
“Are we going to have supper?”
“Supper?” echoed Rondivallo, and drummed his fingers on his forehead as he looked at her; his mouth puckered into a smile, “Yes, yes, I will have a little food, but you worry about me too much, Maureen, I have had to stand much greater pressures than these. Why, we are on the point of success, the very point of success!” Behind the pince nez his eyes glistened. “When we began I was afraid that we had timed it badly, that we needed more time, but—” he shrugged his sloping shoulders. “All will be well.”
He tapped his pockets, and the girl took cigarettes out of her bag and lit one, and handed it to him.
The other two men watched.
“Thank you, thank you,” Rondivallo said. “Yes, all will be well, my dear, we shall not have laboured in vain. And you will be able to live in the world again, you won’t have to be cooped up any longer; but it’s been worth it, now, hasn’t it? If they’d found you they would have found me, and—well, forget it, forget it. It’s nearly over.”
His eyes glistened so much.
“Are you sure they will all give in?” Maureen asked, almost hesitantly.
Rondivallo’s voice grew sharp.
“Of course they will. What choice have they? Either begin at once to destroy their arms, or be visited by a plague which can wipe them out. Even if the Governments don’t wish to do it, my dear, the people will compel them to, and we shall have nothing more to worry about.” He paused to draw at the cigarette, then to move about the modern office, with its angled furniture and its concealed lighting, which gave almost the brightness of day. Yet there was nothing at all nervous in his pacing. “The Government of this country will impose a censorship immediately of course, and nothing will be said over the British Broadcasting Corporation’s stations, but we shall broadcast from our small stations effectively enough to make sure that all the people know that the disaster can be stopped. The Government’s earlier measures, aimed at steadying the country, induced panic more than anything else. So everyone will be most receptive.” His lips puckered again. “I expect to hear from Domminy soon.”
“Won’t they arrest him?” Maureen asked.
The other two men glanced at each other, as if that fear had been on their minds, too.
“Of course they won’t,” said Rondivallo testily. “Why don’t you use your mind, Maureen? They will allow him to stay free, hoping that he will lead them to us, but what a hope they have!” He chuckled and his whole face lit up. “He will talk to us by radio and they will have some job tracing us that way! Everything else is in excellent order. Palfrey and his Z5 men are helpless at the Forest Hotel and in London. Every country in the world has received the ultimatum, and they will give way. They will have to give way.”
Abruptly, his mood changed, and he scowled.
“If they delay, then there will have to be a very sharp lesson. If they delay, then I shall give our London agent the word to act. Already there are big supplies of infected foods at Covent Garden, all tomorrow morning’s deliveries will be infected, and as the fruit and vegetables are taken into the homes, the bacteria will develop. Some will grow even before that. All tomorrow’s deliveries of frozen foods throughout London will also be infected. What a miracle,” he breathed, “what a miracle! The moment these insects begin to feel the warmth of light rays whether in water or not, they will grow: and in a matter of minutes they will begin to fly.”
Maureen said slowly: “Must you begin with London?”
“Of course I must!” The fat scientist’s voice was sharp again. “Where else could the example be so effective? Once the world’s other capital cities hear of what has happened— but I hope that it will not be necessary, my dear. I hope that Domminy will be able to persuade his fellow Cabinet Ministers that delay will be quite useless.”
As abruptly as he had started to scowl, Rondivallo began to laugh. The laughter shook his big body and his flabby chins. He put a hand on Maureen’s shoulder and clutched her tightly, as if in need of support. The two men smiled at him, but Maureen stared as if she could not understand.
“Oh, dear me, how funny it is,” he said at last, and used a little finger to wipe the tears of laughter out of his eyes. “How very funny, my dear. Such a good man as Domminy helping us! Oh, he is a little mad, like all fanatics, but this upright, moral, righteous man believes that it is the only way to take freedom to the world. Oh, my dear, what fools men can be, what fools they can be.”
“Isn’t it the way to freedom from fear?” Maureen asked, and her eyes were very steady.
“For you, yes.” Rondivallo hugged her. “For me, yes. For everyone who is with us, yes. But to others, no. My dear Maureen, you must be a realist. Men will always fight, so they must be kept constantly under the threat of fear. Men must be governed and if necessary must be rigidly and ruthlessly compelled to submit to higher intelligences. Could you hope to make them do so in their present state of development? Can you imagine different peoples really living together in complete harmony? With their conflicting religions, their hatreds and prejudices, with all the centuries of enmity behind them, and with the rawness of the memory of recent events in their minds? Left to their own they will start quarreling and then fighting among themselves, and where will that get us? Where will it get you and me? Do you think I have worked these years so that I could allow the ordinary people, the politicians, the religious fanatics, the moralists, to start their silly quarrels again?”
He broke off, for a light flashed at a cabinet in one corner of the room. He looked and moved towards it with an arm round the girl’s shoulder.
“Larsen thought that I had done that,” he went on. “He was told only today what I really plan, and said that he would tell Domminy. Luckily Smith was able to make sure he didn’t live to tell anyone. He should have known better, anyhow, and so should you, my dear. We have the military, naval and air strength to impose our will on the rest of the world for generations.”
The light flickered.
“We have?” Maureen breathed.
“Yes,” said Rondivallo, standing close to the cabinet and watching the flickering light. “In this very plant we have all the weapons needed to dominate the whole o
f this country. In each of our other plants we have what is needed to maintain effective control in other countries. First, the nations must lay down their arms. After that they will do what we tell them.”
“What you tell them?” Maureen said.
He glanced down at her, and gave her another little squeeze. “Yes, that is right. Good girl! What I tell them.” He chuckled. “Everyone who serves me has to obey, because they know that with other infections, such as the present plague, I can dispose of them. Phutt! Those who kill me kill everything. And I have given the order for the attack on London to begin unless I cancel it, so—I had better not die. Eh, Maureen? Now, here is a message. It will be from Domminy.”
The other two men had moved and were standing in front of the cabinet, which looked like a small radiogram, with a small loudspeaker built in.
A man’s voice came, clearly.
“This is Juno speaking, Juno speaking, please stand by for a report.”
“Juno?” Rondivallo frowned. “What does the Forest Hotel want now? Don’t they realize that we are too busy to be worried by small matters?”
No one else spoke.
The same voice came through the loud speaker again.
“This is Juno speaking, Juno speaking. This is to inform you that Dr. Palfrey and three of his men escaped twenty minutes ago, using a Civil Defence helicopter. One of the men was not affected by the mosquito bite, and may be capable of aggressive action. Palfrey and the other two men were bitten, but Palfrey is now known to have taken a hypodermic syringe and a distillation of curare with him. He may know that if injected subcutaneously the curare will protect him against the full paralytic effects. Message ends. This is Juno speaking, Juno standing by to receive your instructions.”
Rondivallo had lost every vestige of colour. The perspiration was standing out on his forehead and glistened on his neck. He snatched at a microphone attached to the cabinet, and said hoarsely: