The Enemy

by Desmond Bagley

  There was a silence at my ear, then Lumsden said, 'Er… no-I don't think I can do that.'

  'Why? Haven't you got it?'

  'I have it, but I'm afraid it isn't available to you.'

  I blinked at that curious statement, and filed it away for future reference. 'Then can you ring her and give her a message?'

  Lumsden paused again, then said reluctantly, 'I suppose I can do that. What's the message?'

  'It'll need an answer. Ask her where she put the letters from her father. I need to know.' As far as I knew that would be perfectly meaningless.

  'All right,' he said. 'I'll pass it on.'

  'Immediately,' I persisted. 'I'll wait here until you ring me back.' I gave him my number.

  When I sorted the morning's post I found a slip from British Road Services; they had tried to deliver a package but to no avail because I was out-would I collect said package from the depot at Paddington? I put the slip in my wallet.

  Lumsden rang nearly an hour later. 'She says she doesn't know which particular letters you mean.'

  'Does she? That's curious. How did she sound?'

  'I didn't speak to her myself; she wasn't available on an outside line. But the message was passed to her.'

  I said, 'Professor Lumsden, I'd like you to ring again and speak to her personally this time. I…'

  He interrupted. 'I'll do no such thing. I haven't the time to waste acting as messenger-boy.' There was a clatter and he was cut off.

  I sat for a quarter of an hour wondering if I was making something out of nothing, chasing after insubstantial wisps as a puppy might chase an imaginary rabbit. Then I drove to Paddington to collect the package and was rather shattered to find that it was my own suitcase. Captain Morelius had taken his time in sending my possessions from Sweden.

  I put it in the boot of my car and opened it. There seemed to be nothing missing although after such a length of time I couldn't be sure. What was certain was that Swedish Intelligence would have gone over everything with a microscope. But it gave me an idea. I went into Paddington Station and rang the Ashton house.

  Mary Cope answered, and I said, 'This is Malcolm Jaggard. How are you, Mary?'

  'I'm very well, sir.'

  'Mary, has anything arrived at the house from Sweden? Suitcases or anything like that?'

  'Why, yes, sir. Two suitcases came on Monday. I've been trying to ring Miss Penny to ask her what to do with them, but she hasn't been at home-I mean in the flat in London.'

  'What did you do with them?'

  'I put them in a box-room."

  There were traffic jams on the way to Marlow. The congestion on the Hammersmith By-Pass drove me to a distraction of impatience, but after that the road was open and I had my foot on the floor as I drove down the M4. The gates of the house stood open. Who would think Mary Cope might need protection?

  She answered the door at my ring, and I said immediately, 'Has anyone else asked about those cases?'

  'Why, no, sir.'

  'Where are they?'

  'I'll show you.' She led me upstairs by the main staircase and up another flight and along a corridor. The house was bare and empty and our footsteps echoed. She opened a door. 'I put them in here out of the way.'

  I regarded the two suitcases standing in the middle of the empty room, then turned to her and smiled. 'You may congratulate me, Mary. Penny and I are getting married.'

  'Oh, I wish you all the best in the world,' she said.

  'So I don't think you'll have to stay in London, after all. We'll probably have a house in the country somewhere. Not as big as this one though.'

  'Would you want me to stay?'

  'Of course,' I said. 'Now, I'd like to look at this stuff alone. Do you mind?'

  She looked at me a shade doubtfully, then made up her mind. So many strange things had happened in that house that one more wouldn't make any difference. She nodded and went out, closing the door behind her.

  Both cases were locked. I didn't trouble with lock-picking but sprung open the catches with a knife. The first case was Ashton's and contained the little he had taken with him on the run from Stockholm. It also contained the clothes he had been wearing; the overcoat, jacket and shirt were torn-bullet holes-but there was no trace of blood. Everything had been cleaned.

  It was Benson's case I was really interested in. In this two-cubic-foot space was all we had left of Howard Greatorex Benson, and if I couldn't find anything here then it was probable that the Ashton case would never be truly solved.

  I emptied the case and spread everything on the floor. Overcoat, suit, fur hat, underwear, shirt, socks, shoes-everything he had died with. The fur hat had a hole in the back big enough to put my fist through. I gave everything a thorough going-over, aware that Captain Morelius would have done the same, and found nothing-no microfilm, beloved of the thriller writers, no hidden pockets in the clothing, nothing at all out of the usual.

  There was a handful of Swedish coins and a slim sheaf of currency in a wallet. Also in the wallet were some stamps, British and Swedish; two newspaper cuttings, both of book reviews in English, and a scribbled shopping list. Nothing there for me unless smoked salmon, water biscuits and Mocha coffee held a hidden meaning, which I doubted.

  I was about to drop the wallet when I saw the silk lining was torn. Closer inspection showed it was not a tear but a cut, probably made by a razor blade. Captain Morelius left nothing to chance at all. I inserted my finger between the lining and the outer case and encountered a piece of paper. Gently I teased it out, then took my find to the window.

  It was a letter:

  TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN

  Howard Greatorex Benson is the bearer of this letter. Should his bona fides be doubted in any way the undersigned should be consulted immediately before further action is taken with regard to the bearer.

  Stapled to the letter was a passport-type photograph of Benson, a much younger man than the Benson I remembered but still with the damaged features and the scar on the cheek. He looked to be in his early thirties. Confirmation of this came from the date of the letter-4 January, 1947. At the bottom of the letter was an address and a telephone number; the address was in Mayfair and the number was in the old style with both letters and digits, long since defunct. The letter was signed by James Pallson.

  The itch at the back of my mind was now assuaged, the jigsaw puzzle was almost complete. Although a few minor pieces were missing, enough pieces were assembled to show the picture, and I didn't like what I saw. I scanned the letter again and wondered what Morelius had made of it, then put it into my wallet and went downstairs.

  I telephoned Ogilvie but he was out, so after making my farewell to Mary Cope I drove back to London, going immediately to University College. Aware that Lumsden might refuse to see me, I avoided the receptionist and went straight to his office and went in without knocking.

  He looked up and frowned in annoyance as he saw me. 'What the devil… I won't be badgered like this.'

  'Just a few words, Professor.'

  'Now look here,' he snapped, 'I have work to do, and I haven't time to play post office between two lovebirds.'

  I strode to his desk and pushed the telephone towards him. 'Ring Penny.'

  'I will not.' He picked up the card I flicked on to the desk, then said, 'I see. Not just a simple policeman, after all. But I can't see this makes any difference.'

  I said, 'Where's the laboratory?'

  'In Scotland.'

  'Where in Scotland?'

  'I'm sorry. I'm not at liberty to say.'

  'Who runs it?'

  He shrugged. 'Some government department, I believe.'

  'What's being done there?'

  'I really don't know. Something to do with agriculture, so I was told.'

  'Who told you?'

  'I can't say.'

  'Can't or won't?' I held his eye for a moment and he twitched irritably. 'You don't really believe that guff about agriculture, do you? That wouldn't account for the secreti
ve way you're behaving. What's so bloody secret about agricultural research? Cregar told you it was agriculture and you accepted it as a sop to your conscience, but you never really believed it. You're not as naive as that.'

  'We'll leave my conscience to me,' he snapped.

  'And you're welcome to it. What's Penny doing there?'

  'Giving general technical assistance.'

  'Laboratory design for the handling of pathogens,' I suggested.

  'That kind of thing.'

  'Does she know Cregar is behind it?'

  'You're the one who brought up Cregar,' said Lumsden. 'I didn't.'

  'What did Cregar do to twist your arm? Did he threaten to cut off your research funds? Or was there a subtly-worded letter from a Cabinet Minister suggesting much the same thing? Co-operate with Cregar or else.' I studied him in silence for a moment. 'That doesn't really matter-but did Penny know of Cregar's involvement?'

  'No,' he said sullenly.

  'And she didn't know what the laboratory was for, but she was beginning to have suspicions. She had a row with you.'

  'You seem to know it all,' said Lumsden tiredly, and shrugged. 'You're right in most of what you say.'

  I said, 'Where is she?'

  He looked surprised. 'At the laboratory. I thought we'd established that.'

  'She was very worried about safety up there, wasn't she?'

  'She was being emotional about it. And Cregar was pushing Carter hard. He wants results.'

  'Who is Carter?'

  'The Chief Scientific Officer.'

  I pointed to the telephone. 'I'll lay you a hundred pounds to a bent farthing that you won't be able to talk to her.'

  He hesitated for a long time before he picked up the telephone and began to dial. Although he was being niggly on secrecy, on security he was lousy. As he dialled I watched his anger and memorized the number. 'Professor Lumsden here. I'd like to speak to Dr. Ashton. Yes, I'll hang on.'

  He put his hand over the mouthpiece. 'They've gone to call her. They think she's in her room.'

  'Don't bet on it.'

  Lumsden hung on to the telephone for a long time, then suddenly said, 'Yes?… I see… the mainland. Well, ask her to ring me as soon as she comes back. I'll be in my office.' He put down the telephone and said dully, 'They say she's gone to the mainland.'

  'So it's on an island.'

  'Yes.' He looked up and his eyes were haunted. 'They could be right, you know.'

  'Not a chance,' I said. 'Something has happened up there. You referred to your conscience; I'll leave you with it. Good day, Professor Lumsden.'

  I strode into Ogilvie's outer office, said to his secretary, 'Is the boss in?' and breezed on through without waiting for an answer. There were going to be no more closed doors as far as I was concerned.

  Ogilvie was just as annoyed as Lumsden at having his office invaded. 'I didn't send for you,' he said coldly.

  'I've cracked Benson,' I said. 'He was Cregar's man.'

  Ogilvie's eyes opened wide. 'I don't believe it.'

  I tossed the letter before him. 'Signed, sealed and delivered. That was written on the fourth of January, 1947, the day Benson was discharged from the army, and signed by the Honourable James Pallson who is now Lord Cregar. Christ, the man has no honour in him. Do you realize, that when Ashton and Benson skipped to Sweden and Cregar was doing his holier-than-thou bit, he knew where they were all the time. The bastard has been laughing at us.'

  Ogilvie shook his head. 'No, it's too incredible.'

  'What's so incredible about it? That letter says Benson has been Cregar's man for the past thirty years. I'd say Cregar made a deal with Ashton. Ashton was free to do as he wanted-to sink or swim in the capitalist sea-but only on condition he had a watchdog attached: Benson. And when the reorganization came and Cregar lost responsibility for Ashton he conveniently forgot to tell you about Benson. It also explains why Benson was lost from the computer files.'

  Ogilvie drew in his breath. 'It fits,' he admitted. 'But it leaves a lot still to be explained.'

  'You'll get your explanation from Cregar,' I said savagely. 'Just before I skin him and nail his hide to the barn door.'

  'You'll stay away from Cregar,' he said curtly. 'I'll handle him.'

  'That be damned for a tale. You don't understand. Penny Ashton has gone missing and Cregar has something to do with it. It will take more than you to keep me off Cregar's back.'

  'What's all this?' He was bewildered, I told him, then said, 'Do you know where this laboratory is?'

  'No.'

  I took a card from my wallet and dropped it on the desk. 'A telephone number. The post office won't tell me anything about it because it's unlisted. Do something.'

  He glanced at the card but didn't pick it up. He said slowly, 'I don't know…'

  I cut in. 'I know something. That letter is enough to ruin Cregar, but I can't wait. Don't stop me. Just give me what I need and I'll give you more than that letter-I'll give you Cregar's head on a platter. But I'm not going to wait too long.'

  He looked at me thoughtfully, then picked up the card and the telephone simultaneously. Five minutes later he said two words. 'Cladach Duillich.'

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Cladach Duillich was a hard place to get to. It was one of the Summer Isles, a scattering of rocks in an indentation of the North Minch into Ross and Cromarty. The area is a popular haunt of biological dicers with death. Six miles to the south of Cladach Duillich lies Gruinard Island, uninhabited and uninhabitable. In 1942 the biological warfare boys made a trifling mistake and Gruinard was soaked with anthrax-a hundred years' danger. No wonder the Scots want devolution with that sort of foolishness emanating from the south.

  I flew to Dalcross, the airport for Inverness, and there hired a car in which I drove the width of Scotland to Ullapool at the head of Loch Broom. It was a fine day; the sun was shining; the birds singing and the scenery magnificent-all of which left me cold because I was trying to make good speed on a road which is called in Scotland, 'Narrow, Class 1 (with passing places)'. I felt with a depressing certainty that time was a commodity which was running out fast.

  It was latish in the day when I arrived in Ullapool. Cladach Duillich lay twelve miles further, out in the bay; say a four hour round trip for a local fishing boat. I dickered with a couple of fishermen but none was willing to take me out at that time. The sun was an hour from setting, clouds were building up in the west, and a raw wind blew down the narrow loch, ruffling water which had turned iron grey. I made a tentative deal with a man called Robbie Ferguson to take me out to the island at eight the next morning, weather permitting.

  It was not yet the tourist season so I found a room in a pub quite easily. That evening I sat in the bar listening to the local gossip and putting in a word or two myself, not often but often enough to stake a conversational claim when I decided to do a small quiz on Cladach Duillich.

  It was evident that the rising tide of Scottish nationalism was in full rip in the West Highlands. There was talk of English absentee landlords and of 'Scottish' oil and of the ambivalent attitude of the Scottish Labour Party, all uttered in tones of amused and rather tired cynicism as though these people had lost faith in the promises of politicians. There was not much of it, just enough to spice the talk of fishing and the weather, but if I had been a bland habitue of the Westminster corridors of power it would have been enough to scare the hell out of me. Ullapool, it seemed, was further removed from London than Kalgoorlie, Australia.

  I finished my half-pint of beer and switched to scotch, asking the barman which he recommended. The man next to me turned. 'The Talisker's not so bad,' he offered. He was a tall, lean man in his mid-fifties with a craggy face and the soft-set mouth found in Highlanders. He spoke in that soft West Highland accent which is about as far from Harry Lauder as you can get.

  'Then that's what I'll have. Will you join me?'

  He gave me a speculative look, then smiled. 'I don't see why not. You'll be from the south,
I take it. It's early for folk like you.'

  I ordered two large Taliskers. 'What sort am I, then?'

  'A tourist, maybe?'

  'Not a tourist-a journalist.'

  'Is it so? Which paper?'

  'Any that'll publish me. I'm a freelance. Can you tell me anything about Gruinard Island?'

  He chuckled, and shook his head, 'Och, not again? Every year we get someone asking about Gruinard; the Island of Death they used to call it. It's all been written, man; written into the ground. There's nothing new in that.'

  I shrugged. 'A good story is still a good story to anyone who hasn't heard it. There's a rising generation which thinks of 1942 as being in the Dark Ages. I've met kids who think Hitler was a British general. But perhaps you're right. Anything else of interest around here?'

  'What would interest an English newspaper in Ullapool? There's no oil here; that's on the east coast.' He looked into his whisky glass thoughtfully. 'There's the helicopter which comes and goes and no one knowing why. Would that interest you?'

  'It might,' I said. 'An oil company chopper?'

  'Could be, could be. But it lands on one of the islands. I've seen it myself.'

  'Which island?'

  'Out in the bay-Cladach Duillich. It's just a wee rock with nothing much on it. I doubt if the oil is there. They put up a few buildings but no drilling rig.'

  'Who put up the buildings?'

  'They say the government rented the island from an English lord. Wattie Stevenson went over in his boat once, just to pass the time of day, you know, and to say that when the trouble came there'd always be someone in Ullapool to help. But they wouldn't as much as let him set foot on the rock. Not friendly neighbours at all.'

  'What sort of trouble was your friend expecting?'

  'The weather, you understand. The winter storms are very bad. It's said the waves pass right over Cladach Duillich. That's how it got its name.'

  I frowned. 'I don't understand that.'

  'Ah, you haven't the Gaelic. Well, long ago there was a fisherman out of Coigach and his boat sank in a storm on the other side of the island out there. So he swam and he swam and he finally got ashore and thought he was safe. But he was drowned all the same, poor man, because the shore was Cladach Duillich. The water came right over. Cladach Duillich in the English would be the Sad Shore.'