The Sky is Falling td-63

by Warren Murphy

  "Got to do something, you know. Can't go on like this. Be nice if we, not they, knew who we had."

  "Quite," said Guy. "Did you try the salmon mousse?" A silver tray of hors d'oeuvres rested on a mahogany stand next to a chilled magnum of champagne of a modest year. Nothing rude, of course, but nothing to make one stop and notice.

  His friend thought about the salmon mousse awhile. Then he said:

  "Do you want to grab hold of those boys and shake them up a bit, Guy?"

  "Don't think it would work."

  "What would you do?"

  "I would use our misfortune, old boy," said Guy.

  "The one thing I want to do with a disaster is forget it."

  "Not in this case," said Lord Philliston. He was devastatingly handsome with fine strong features befitting a British lord. Indeed, more than one movie producer had asked him to take a screen test. He had always refused. Acting was too much like work.

  "If we have a deuced mess, and we try to rearrange things, one chap here, one chap there, one chap somewhere else, then we may still be moving around people who might be loyal to Ivan. In which case we are only rearranging our problem, not solving it."

  "Go on. Please do."

  "Let's not close down the section. Matter of fact, let's keep it going. Strong."

  "But we don't even know who we have there! The Russians know who we have there. They have the only list for our Middle East section."

  "Which shows how stupid they are. Taking the only list was a mistake. They should have made a duplicate and let us go on thinking we had somewhat secure agents out there."

  "I think it was a snatch and grab. No great internal mole. Some clerk slipped a few quid, snatched a list here or there, and it happened to be an important one."

  It was then that Lord Philliston showed his true brilliance. The plan was to let the Russians know that MI-5 believed they had only carelessly misplaced the list. MI-5 would start a search for it and allow the Russians to do their job right by smuggling back the entire original list to some intelligence department.

  "Then what?"

  "Then we continue to rely on the useless people."

  "Wouldn't that be a bit purposeless?"

  "Not at all, because in our disaster is their comfort. We should stop at nothing to let the Russians and the rest of the world believe that we have become the worst, most riddled intelligence system in the world."

  "I beg your pardon, Lord Philliston."

  "Try the mousse, will you?"

  "I beg your pardon. What is this insanity?"

  "Because we will, starting today, start a new intelligence system, protected by the Russians' certainty that they own pieces, if not all, of ours."

  "From scratch you mean? From the bloody start you mean?"

  "Absolutely," said Lord Philliston. The trumpets were announcing the first race. "Our real intelligence system will be one no one has ever heard of."

  "Brilliant. We will show the Americans we can still hack it."

  "We will show them nothing. The Americans are addicted to talk. A major American secret is one that is reported by only a single television network."

  "An excellent idea. I knew you were the right fellow for this thing, Lord Philliston. I suppose we will have to give you your MI code. Would you like MI-9?"

  "No label. No codes."

  "We have to call you something."

  "Pick a word then," said Lord Phiiliston.

  "Doesn't seem quite right to launch an intelligence operation without an MI code."

  "Call the bloody thing 'Source.' "

  "Why 'Source'?"

  "Why not 'Source'?" said Lord Guy Philliston.

  And thus the Source was born that afternoon at Epsom Downs. No one quite knew how Lord Philliston managed it, and he was not one to tell. Information that the Americans could not gather was immediately placed at the disposal of every British prime minister. News of major Russian decisions and the reasons for them began appearing on plain typed paper. More often than not it was too late to do anything about these major Russian moves, but the reports were always accurate, if not brilliant. Guy Philliston performed with a tenth of the personnel allocated to the public intelligence system. And never once did he seek promotion or fame.

  His success only confirmed what all of the good friends knew in the first place: one of theirs knew how to run things best. Always had, always would.

  One never went wrong trusting someone who used the right tailor. And the best thing about Lord Philliston's Source was that it never made public noise, never embarrassed anyone. A legend grew up among those who ran things that if it were brilliant and impossible to figure out, it had to be Source.

  One reason Lord Philliston's Source could use so few men was that he didn't have to waste years and manpower penetrating the inner circles of the Kremlin.

  He merely had lunch at the right club. There in his private mail, which no one would dare open, were the reports in English, neatly typed, of what was going on in the world. There was also a very handy summary of what they referred to, so that Lord Guy Philliston could get through a month's work in less than five minutes. One minute, if he chose to speed-read the summary.

  The information about the Kremlin was accurate because it came from the Kremlin. And the original list of British agents had been returned.

  In fact, everything Lord Philliston had told his friends at Epsom Downs that day had been worked out for him by his KGB contact, who was also his lover, and who knew that what Lord Philliston liked best in the world was generally to be left alone. The one thing he hated in the world was the Philliston duty of serving Queen and country.

  Running the Source allowed Lord Philliston the utmost respect of his family and friends with the least amount of work or danger. Russia certainly wasn't going to endanger her absolutely prime position with him in charge of Britain's secret security unit. Daddy wouldn't press him to join the Coldstream Guards, and Mummy wouldn't demand he escort one properly bred sow after another if he could claim that his time was fully taken up by Her Majesty's Service. Being a traitor to Queen and country had been an asbolute blessing to a lazy lord who preferred the love of men to that of the women his entire family wanted him to breed with.

  There was occasional elements of risk in this job. Like the day he was told by the Russian contact to retire to his safe room because an American was about, mucking things up.

  He did not like Philliston Hall. Even the parapets where one could survey the Philliston countryside were gloomy. And the safe room, once the master bedroom of the lords of this fortress, was gloomier still. Not even a slit for air. Fifteen feet of rock on every side and not an inch of it provided insulation. Stone never did.

  No one had even bothered to put in a proper toilet. Rather, one relieved oneself in a little niche with a narrow hole to accept one's discharge. It had taken workmen three months to cut in the narrow holes for the security lines. One of them went to Whitehall, another went to Scotland Yard, another went to Number 10 Downing Street, and the one that had the really impenetrable scramble system went to the cultural-affairs department of the Russian embassy. Guy, of course, had direct access to the chief KGB officer there.

  "This is ridiculous," said Guy. He was wearing a scratchy cashmere sweater pulled on over a cotton shirt that had too much starch. The brandy was adequate, but it kept chilling. The only way to heat anything in the room was to start a fire, but fires made smoke and the air was already deucedly unbreathable.

  "Stay right where you are,'' warned the Russian. "Do not leave the room. The American is near you."

  "One American is forcing me to hide in this stone-cold chamber?"

  "He has run through some of your best staff and right now he is parked less than two hundred yards west of Philliston Hall."

  "Who told you that?"

  "Your guards. Stay where you are. You are too precious for us to risk. This man may be dangerous."

  "Well then, let's give him what he wants and get r
id of him. Then let me get back to London. This place is worthless. Useless."

  "Stay where you are."

  " 'Stay where you are,' " said Guy Philliston, imitating the soupy Russian accent before he hung up with force. He hated the Russian accent. Always sounded like they had something they wanted to cough up. Israelis sounded like they were about to spit something out, and Arabs hissed. Americans sounded like their tongues couldn't handle vowels, and Australians sounded-rightfully-as though they had all just been let out of Old Newgate Prison. Why, Lord Philliston asked himself, couldn't Britain fight the French? The French would make lovely enemies. They were cultured. The only real flaw of their race was that the men liked women too much.

  Into this dreary cold life came the most beautiful surprise. Virtually out of a wall came the most handsome man Lord Philliston had ever seen. He had magnificent dark eyes, high cheekbones, and was in perfect trim. His body movements made Guy Philliston quiver with excitement. He was carrying something white, which he let drop to the stone floor with a clatter. They were bones. Human bones.

  "Is that your specialty?" asked Lord Philliston. "I've never done anything with bones but it sounds absolutely delicious. Smashing."

  "They're your bones," said Remo. "I found them at the end of the tunnel where your ancestors left him. Him and about three more."

  "My ancestors?"

  "If you're Lord Philliston, and if you are in this room you would have to be."

  "Why would they leave bones at the end of a tunnel?"

  "Because they were like the Egyptians, and others," said Remo. "When they constructed a secret entrance to a pyramid or castle, they killed the workmen. Secrets are always best buried underground."

  "Oh, isn't that delightful. You found the secret passage Daddy promised to tell me about someday. That is, if he could ever get me to this place. Which he couldn't." Guy Philliston looked at the opening in the wall. It was low and concealed by only one stone. He wondered if saving his life was worth getting so soiled by crawling through a tunnel like that. This man in his dark T-shirt and light trousers could apparently move through things and not get a smudge. The very thought of it made the head of Source tingle.

  "Look, sweetheart," said the American in his magnificent rough voice, totally American-city-butch, "I am looking for a woman. You are supposed to know things. You are the one who runs Source."

  "Are you sure you want a woman? How about a really attractive boy?"

  "I am looking for a knockout of a redhead. Her name is Dr. Kathleen O'Donnell."

  "Oh, that little matter," said Lord Phiiliston, clutching his chest in relief. "I thought you wanted her as a bed partner. You mean it's business-related?"

  Remo nodded.

  "Well, of course you can have her. She is staying in one of my personal safe houses. You can have anything you want."

  "Where is she?"

  "Well, you've got to give me what I want first." Remo grabbed the smooth throat and pressured the jugular vein until the handsome features of Lord Philliston became red, then painfully blue. Then he released. "You'll need me to get in."

  "I don't need anyone to get in anywhere."

  "I can help you. Just do me one favor. Do that thing with your hands again. You know the spot."

  Remo let Lord PhiIliston down on the stone and wiped his hands on the Britisher's cashmere sweater. He snared a bunch of it for a handle and dragged Lord Philliston with him back through the tunnel. Remo had questions to ask. Why were the British obstructing him? Didn't they know that the entire world was in jeopardy? What was going on? It was not difficult to ask these questions while moving quickly through the underground escape tunnel. The problem was in getting answers. Lord Philliston tended to bang against the rough rock walls as they moved. He was gashed. He was cut. He was brutalized. By the time they surfaced to where Remo had discovered the entrance, Lord Guy Philliston was battered and quivering.

  He was also in love.

  "Do that again. Once more. Please," said the head of the super-secret special British security agency. The car was still waiting for the American. The survivors packed into the back seat had decided that he had done his worst, and if they didn't move, would do no more.

  They saw the American appear from the exact spot he had descended into. Behind him was the man they had all learned to respect and trust.

  The British colonel thought he might try a desperate lunge toward the American. His body wouldn't move. The intelligence chief wondered what Sir Guy was doing.

  "Is he following him or being dragged?" he asked. "Don't know for sure. Lord Philliston is biting his hand, I think."

  "No. Not biting. Look."

  "I don't believe it."

  As the American opened the car door, they all saw the undeniable pressing of their chief's lips to the American's hand. The head of the unit to which they had devoted their lives was kissing the hand that dragged him.

  "Sir," snapped the colonel.

  "Oh, bugger off," said Philliston. He knew what they were thinking.

  "A bit improper, what?" said the colonel.

  The unit chief, who had been assigned an MI code but who had secretly worked for Source, gave Lord Philliston a big wink. He was sure this was some sort of maneuver of his, something so cunning that only a master of intelligence could think of it. He vowed to be ready to move against the American when the time came. The head of Source saw the wink, and returned it. Strangely he added another sign. It was his palm on the inside of the station chief's hand.

  "Driver, to the Tower of London," said Philliston. He moved from the rear seat to the little pull-up seat just behind the driver facing the back. There was blood on a few of the men crushed there. One of them still pretended not to recognize him, as was the order with any secret personnel like himself. A bit silly, Philliston thought. The American seemed to sit without a chair. As the car lurched over the roads, everyone else seemed to bounce but the American.

  "She's in the Tower of London?"

  "Of course. Excellent safe house. Has been since 1066," said Lord Philliston.

  "That's a tourist attraction, isn't it?" asked Remo.

  "Whole bloody island is a tourist attraction," said Lord Philliston. "If we weren't using Philliston Hall as headquarters, we'd be bloody well selling tickets to it."

  "Why are you holding back information from your allies?" said Remo.

  "Everybody holds back information from everybody else," said Lord Philliston.

  "Don't take it personally, please. Personally I would give you anything." He ran a tongue along his lower lip.

  Brilliant portrayal of a flaming fag, thought the station chief. And the American just may be suckered in. But why is he giving away the location of safe house eleven?

  "Are you aware that we all may be burning up in the sun's unfiltered rays if we don't go by nuclear holocaust first? Did you know that? Does it mean anything to you guys?"

  "You are taking things personally," said Lord Philliston.

  "I always take the end of the world personally," said Remo. "I am personally in it. So is everything I love personally in it. Also some things I don't like."

  "What's this about filtered sun? Unfiltered?" asked the colonel.

  "Ozone. Without that ozone shield no one could survive. I am trying to trace the source of a weapon that threatens it. I would appreciate your cooperation. Dr. O'Donnell was running the test on this side of the Atlantic. Now, why are you people withholding information from us?"

  "Ozone? How are they doing that?" said the station chief.

  Remo tried to remember whether it was fluorocarbons or fluorides, or spray cans, or what.

  "We'll find out when we get there, all right?" he said. All the way to London, his men listened to Lord Guy Philliston portray a flaming fag in love with a brute. It was shameful and disgraceful, but every one of them knew he was doing it for England. Everyone except the station chief, who sat on Lord Philliston's other side and continuously had to protect the zipper on his
fly.

  Chapter 7

  The message was clear, but brief. The American had not been misled in Great Britain. According to the fragments of information received in Moscow, the American was at this very moment outside the gates of the Tower of London, the perfect safe house he was not supposed to find. How he'd gotten there was not explained. Whether he realized the woman was being held at he Tower was not mentioned. Only the short notification of danger came through to British desk, KGB Moscow.

  It came with a message equally brief, this from the psychological officer. The American woman was about to tell them everything.

  The time had come to wrap all this up. KGB British desk Moscow immediately sent back a message regarding the American: "Put him down."

  He was to be killed, despite all the ranting and raving from that old revolutionary leader Zemyatin, who seemed strangely concerned with the danger of one man. The KGB had more and better killers at its disposal today.

  Very shortly, the American nuisance would be removed and the woman would lead them to everything they needed.

  Kathy O'Donnell knew nothing of the messages going across the Atlantic or that someone was coming to rescue her. She didn't want to be rescued.

  Until this day, she realized, she had not known real happiness. She was in a room whose floors and walls were stone, on a rough bed, with a man who really excited her. How he did it, she was not sure, but she didn't care. The excitement had started during the experiment at Malden and just hadn't stopped. It was wonderful, and she would do practically anything to keep it going.

  Even as the rough hands pinched the soft parts of her body and the cruel mouth laughed, she remembered what had happened at the Valden site, where she met this Russian fellow. Perhaps he was the first real man she had ever known.

  One of her hired technicians had passed out. The animals were weeping in delicious pain. And she, of course, was coolly pretending that nothing was the matter as the ozone shield began closing itself above the burned field.