by Hugh Franks
Hugh Franks was educated at Hurstpierpoint College and Sandhurst. He joined his regiment, the 13/18 Royal Hussars, and with them took part in the Northwest Europe campaign from Normandy to the Baltic in the Second World War. He was twice mentioned in Despatches for bravery. After the war, he was a lecturer and instructor for the Army, then became executive director of a small successful business. He has also worked as a public relations consultant and director of a small recruitment consultancy, lecturing, recruiting and writing articles. He has written several novels, plays, books of humour, film scripts and short stories. A biography, Will to Live, won a US literary award in 1980.
THE DRAGON AND
THE NEEDLE
Hugh Franks
Book Guild Publishing
Sussex, England
First published in Great Britain in 2014 by
The Book Guild Ltd
The Werks
45 Church Road
Hove, BN3 2BE
Copyright © Hugh Franks 2014
The right of Hugh Franks to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance
to real people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.
Typesetting in Sabon by
Keyboard Services, Luton, Bedfordshire
Printed in Great Britain by
CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
A catalogue record for this book is available from
The British Library.
ISBN 978 1 909716 26 1
ePub ISBN 978 1910298 13 8
Mobi ISBN 978 1910298 14 5
Contents
The Dragon and the Needle
I returned, and saw under the sun, that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to those of understanding, nor yet favour to those of skill: but time and chance happen to them all.
For man also knoweth not his time: as the fishes that are taken in an evil net, and as the birds that are caught in the snare; so are the sons and daughters of men snared in an evil time, when it falleth on them.
Ecclesiastes
The principle of Yin and Yang is the basis of the entire universe. It is the principle of everything in creation. It brings about the transformation to parenthood; it is the root and source of life … and death.
The Nei Ching
The newspaper placard headlines stared out at passers-by: ‘ANOTHER MYSTERY DEATH! GOVERNMENT BAFFLED’ but people were mostly concerned with escaping from the rain. The rush-hour traffic was already building up around Oxford Circus. The rain was heavy, slowing the buses and taxis to a crawl – even so, pedestrians on the pavements were frequently splashed as the vehicles’ wheels rolled through the accumulated water in the gutters. Tempers were more frayed than usual as commuters hurried to get home to the warmth.
The newsvendor was trying hard to attract their attention. His accent pierced the cold, wet night air, for at five o’clock it was already dark.
‘Read awl abaht it! Read awl abaht it! Nuver top deaf!’
The saloon car crept towards Oxford Circus from the direction of Langham Place. These small inconspicuous cars were often used to carry VIPs. The driver was much younger than the man at his side, Professor Stuart Dorman, MD, FRCP, a senior member of the Medical Research Council, on his way to another urgent meeting with the Minister of Health.
As the car passed the newsvendor, Professor Dorman glanced quickly at the placard. The words written on it merely confirmed the latest death, but he decided to get a newspaper. As his car slowed down to yet another stop, he lowered his car window and with an outstretched hand beckoned to the newsvendor. Even in the small nippy car, Dorman knew it would take at least half an hour to get to the Minister’s office at Alexander Fleming House, south of the Thames at the Elephant and Castle. He thought it might be helpful to read how the newspapers were handling this one; television and radio were playing it low key, thanks largely to his influence.
A moment later, his driver saw a break in the traffic in Regent Street and accelerated towards it, only to grind to a halt in the centre of the famous thoroughfare. The newsvendor was left standing open-mouthed, too slow to pass the paper, yet quick enough to take the money.
‘For God’s sake, John!’ Dorman shouted. ‘There’s no need to drive like a maniac!’
‘Sorry, sir, but you did say get there quickly.’
‘I know I did, but in one piece! And I’ve just paid for a newspaper I haven’t got!’
‘Shall we go back?’
‘No, forget it.’
Rude old bugger, the driver thought. How would he like to swop jobs? That would be a laugh! Then he’d know what it was like to be shouted at. Working as a chauffeur for the Government wasn’t much fun: there were the uncivil hours, the boredom and the petty whims of his VIP passengers. Still, at least it was a job in these hard times. He was content to smile to himself – the big noise had paid for a paper he didn’t get! But as he edged the car forward once more, he remembered that some of his passengers were far more temperamental. He had always had respect for Prof. Dorman.
He said, ‘Sorry about my stupid driving, sir.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Dorman said and relaxed back in his seat once more. He assured his driver that he hadn’t in fact wanted to read; it was better for him to work on the evening ahead. He opened his briefcase and thought how used he was getting to these journeys across London to the Minister of Health. They had begun the day after he had been called to Downing Street to see the PM. But the visits to the Health Minister generally followed periods of intense activity at the Research Council in Park Crescent, or came after detailed study of postmortem reports. This meeting was different. Perhaps he would be the first Westerner to produce a positive approach to these deaths, which had been defined as Extraordinary Natural Death Syndrome, ENDS, a term – or its equivalent in all languages – now recognised throughout the world. The World Health Organization had set up a Global Policy Committee; Dorman had become the top man of this in Europe.
ENDS had been occurring on and off for nearly two years. As the months passed, more and more VIPs had been suddenly dying from causes unknown, all over the world. The appearance of AIDS had proved that many infectious diseases could still be a major cause of death. The medical profession had for a time imagined that killer infections had been brought under control. Yet not only AIDS, but other strains were constantly evolving, resistant to modern drugs. And now with ENDS, scientists and doctors were finding it impossible to locate the cause, let alone the cure.
Since Professor Dorman had become involved, he had worked with unending patience, month after month. He had spent his life caring about people. Medical men often spoke about his workaholism, in a hurtful way: the man was too involved with his profession and too much of a perfectionist. He had even turned down a knighthood, believing such honours to be of little account and inconsistent with looking after the ills of humanity. But they all expressed admiration for his dedication, and the backing he received from a devoted wife. He always supported the idea of treating any medical problem in the light of the whole person, to endeavour at all times and all over the world to prevent suffering and prolong life.
He had travelled to many countrie
s. His last visit to China had culminated in an interview in Beijing with a top Chinese medical specialist, Dr Han. She assured him that China was as worried as the West, and as puzzled. She gave no hint that perhaps Western medicine should search in other areas for an answer to the ENDS crisis, yet there had been a connection in almost every case with Oriental medicine, especially acupuncture. When pressed by Dorman to be more specific about alternative medicine, she had enjoyed her final answer which she posed as a question: ‘Will humans or microbes win?’ She said this with a smile. Dorman left Dr Han feeling he had met a remarkable woman, a woman who knew much more than she was prepared to divulge.
After his visit to China, he became more and more interested in the therapeutic effects of Oriental medicine. He left no stone unturned in his research activities. Recently he had heard about the activities of a doctor called Eleanor Johnson, an American practising in London, who coincidentally seemed to be treating a number of famous people. She had been married to a Chinese acupuncturist, and had spent some considerable time in China. He wanted to meet her. He was sure he was on the verge of a breakthrough of sorts, and hoped to convince the Minister that he was on the right track at last.
The car reached Piccadilly Circus and made its way towards the Haymarket. The traffic was less congested on the north side of Eros, but at the junction of Haymarket and Coventry Street there was another wedge of cars, taxis and buses. It made Dorman’s driver more irritable, and when the downpour of rain increased, he cursed under his breath. He gripped the top of the gear lever until his knuckles turned white, a gesture that replaced swearing aloud. It was not lost on Dorman.
‘Calm down, John,’ he said, his voice sympathetic in tone. ‘Relax and accept the situation.’
‘You’re right, sir,’ the driver answered. ‘My wife’s always telling me to slow down.’
He eased his grip on the gear lever, remembering that he had been about to go home when the urgent call came for him to collect the professor. That thought had been at the back of his mind for the past half-hour, adding to his petulant mood. The professor was right: relax!
The car was still jammed behind a black Jaguar and there seemed to be no sign of movement ahead. The driver glanced down at the red button, the size of a 50 pence coin, located just below the ignition key. It was all so simple, he thought: one push on that would raise the alarm at headquarters, the police and the SAS boys would simultaneously know within seconds that this particular car needed help. Now! No delay – now!
The ingenious device had been fitted to all government cars for some months now; it was a better alternative than the drivers carrying guns to protect their passengers. There had been a terrible shoot-out in Ebury Street, in which a Junior Minister and his chauffeur had been shot dead. Witnesses confirmed that the Minister’s car had been riddled with bullets the moment his driver had drawn his gun. If he hadn’t done that, perhaps the gunmen would not have shot to kill: there was strong evidence that they had wanted a live hostage. He smiled grimly at the thought of how wrong it had been to arm amateurs like himself.
The rain suddenly reached monsoon proportions – even the windscreen wipers couldn’t keep up with the onslaught. The road became an unfocussed dark wet blur, with the reflecting traffic and shop lights adding a confusing perspective.
Dorman sighed loudly and said, ‘Perhaps I should have made you go back for that paper. It’s really going to be a long haul tonight.’
‘Shall I jump out and get you one?’
‘No, you’ll get drenched.’
‘How about the radio?’
‘No, thanks. Perhaps it’s all meant to be.’ He looked at his driver and went on, ‘I was on television this morning and I’ve been talking all day. God is very tidy. He’s giving me a rest.’
‘I see what you mean, sir.’ And the driver thought it wasn’t all beer and skittles for these busy top people. In fact, the Prof. had aged one hell of a lot since he had first met him. Poor old sod.
Dorman felt far from being a ‘poor old sod’ at that precise moment. He was beginning to enjoy this isolation from tension, reports and the constant pressure from his colleagues. It would give him a short period to assess his latest theory. Would it lead to the beginning of the end of these unexplained deaths? Was it possible that the body could respond in such a way? His medical associates would imagine that he had gone mad! He had felt able to take his assistant, Dr Mike Clifford, completely into his confidence, although he had not had time to tell him about his latest and most startling theory. He would tell him after his meeting with the Minister, and show him all the details which he had written out and stuffed into his briefcase. No one else had seen them. If he was right, then perhaps the cause of ENDS would finally be understood.
He had great faith in Mike Clifford. Whatever happened in the future, Dorman knew he could always rely on Mike’s support. They had been working together for over six months, time enough for Mike to be fully versed in the problems of ENDS. This brilliant young doctor was working in the Research Council’s Cell Mutation Unit at the University of Sussex at the time he had been brought to the notice of Professor Dorman. Their difference in age was bridged by the enormous respect they had for each other. Mike was working on the immune system and was deeply involved in clinical trials: trials that might one day lead to the prevention, or even reversal, of paralysis. It was for this reason that Dorman insisted that Mike should continue his work at Sussex as well as working on ENDS. He wished he was with him now. In fact, he probably would have been, had not Clifford’s workaholism kept him down at the seaside university for the past two days. Dorman smiled as he remembered some of those at Park Crescent – the ones who claimed that when it came to work, Mike Clifford was not a chip off the old block, but the old block itself!
The car began to edge forward into the Haymarket and suddenly a long break appeared on the left-hand side, enabling them to get as far as the old Theatre Royal, near the junction with Pall Mall. But again they were stopped by the red traffic lights. Dorman closed his briefcase, unable to read his report, unable to concentrate, becoming edgy once more.
The two men sat silently, moodily, side by side, staring ahead. Dorman decided to call the Minister. As he reached for the car telephone, he heard a rapid tapping on the side of the car. He looked in the direction of the sound and saw a man’s face peering into the car window on his driver’s side. The man began tapping on the car window and at the same time gestured towards the traffic lights. They had just changed to green and Dorman’s driver had already engaged gear to move off.
‘Hadn’t you better see what’s on that man’s mind?’ Dorman said quickly.
The sound of breaking glass filled the small car and a rush of cold air and rain followed the ear-splitting noise. The figure of a narrow-shouldered man wearing a dark trilby loomed at the car window, his face now squashed and unrecognisable through the stocking that he had pulled over it from under his hat. In his hand was a gun. The long barrel of its silencer was pressed against the driver’s head. The driver shouted in terror and reached for the red alarm button as the gunman pulled the trigger for the first time. The driver’s right forefinger slid away from the button before his body fell across Dorman’s lap. Blood was pouring from his neck over the professor’s legs. His eyes appealed with a look of shock, and his voice uttered from somewhere at the back of his throat, ‘Have mercy… !’
Now the gunman pulled the trigger five times in three seconds; the bullets smashed into Dorman’s head, neck, chest, stomach and groin. An explosion of blood mingled with the glittering dashboard lights. The driver’s feet had jammed onto the accelerator and clutch pedals. The engine was roaring, screaming at 7000 revolutions a minute. In a few more seconds the assassin had disappeared into the maze and chaos of the rush-hour traffic, clutching Dorman’s briefcase.
Later, much later, a witness in a car behind claimed that she saw the assassin rush towards Pall Mall; another said he saw him slip away into the nearby Suffolk Place.
But no one was sure and the weather made any recognition impossible.
A large crowd gathered at the scene of the murders and it was some time before the police and plain-clothes SAS were able to restore a degree of order in the Haymarket. The first policeman to arrive on the scene had run up from the direction of the junction leading round into Trafalgar Square. He was a young man, and he had already witnessed many horrific deaths. Even so, it took all his willpower not to turn away from what he saw when he peered into the car’s smashed interior.
From somewhere deep inside himself, his discipline and training held firm. He controlled his fear and dismay. He stood back from the car, reported quickly to his headquarters on his transmitter and shouted instructions to the gathering crowd. The public rallied to his commands. Within a few minutes was heard the distant wailing of sirens.
Norman Hall, the Minister of Health, sat at his desk with the telephone receiver held to his ear. His face was grim and ashen white. With fumbling, nervous hands, he was finding it difficult to hold the receiver steady and write on his scribbling pad. He was glad when the caller finished, but as he replaced the receiver, the shock of the news clawed at his mind. He thought for a moment that he must be dreaming. It couldn’t have happened! Dorman was not only one of the finest medical brains in the country, he was also a much beloved and dedicated man. There would be hell to pay at the next Cabinet meeting. Hall had been responsible for Dorman’s appointment as head of the ENDS Global Policy Committee. It was a government loss. His next thought was about his own loss. He winced, for he had only managed to scrape home at the last election by four votes. Then he thought, I can’t be blamed. I’m not responsible for Dorman’s death. And what can I say to the House?
He glanced at his notepad and read some of the words he had written in a shaky hand: ‘no chance … instant … briefcase gone … wife … had Dorman new evidence?’ How the hell would he know if Dorman had new evidence?