by John Creasey
He began to cough and splutter.
The Deputy Governor didn’t hear; he was in a crumpled heap by the side of his car, and his wife was leaning back inside, her breath coming and going in a fluttering shudder.
Chapter Eleven
The Alarm
At ten-thirty that evening, Palfrey heard that the British Cabinet had recommended the adoption of the Z5 report and an immediate priority investigation into the causes of the increasing carbon monoxide content in the atmosphere.
At ten forty-one, the first report of the disaster at Mountview, Wyoming, reached Palfrey. The reports came from Cheyenne; Denver, Colorado; Grand Rapids, South Dakota and a number of small towns where the radio stations had picked up the messages from WYIG. Immediately Cheyenne had learned of the situation, units of the Army’s anti-gas warfare section had been flown by helicopter to the scene and masked men with protective clothing dropped into the city. Aerial photographs were taken, rushed to Cheyenne, telecast, and picked up by major networks and sent around the world.
At eleven twenty-seven, Palfrey was in his room at Z5 Headquarters with Joyce and three other assistants when the pictures were flashed on the television screen, and with the pictures, reports: “Mountview, Wyoming, is a town with a population of 7,142 people …
“First estimates say 750 people have died …
“Second estimates say that over 1,000 people have died …
“It is understood that over 3,000 people mostly from the south and east of Mountview were unaffected by the gas, now known to be smog of rare density. These families have begun an orderly evacuation of the city, organised by the military.”
And as the reports were broadcast, the pictures were shown, of wrecked cars and the bodies of people strewing the sidewalks, people half in and half out of their cars, people staggering about helplessly as the gas caught up with them.
“The official count of fatalities in the town of Mountview has now reached over 2,000, over a quarter of the population … Whole areas of the town have been saturated … Countless small fires have started from furnaces left unattended, crashed automobiles, electrical failures … Colonel James Wolsinger, in charge of the relief work, has now over 200 troops all fully equipped for gas warfare, at Mountview … Washington has announced the assignment of further rescue parties from Army Depots in Denver, Colorado; Salt Lake City and Ogden, Utah; Butte and Great Falls, Montana … other detachments are likely to leave shortly from Northern and Southern California …
“The first analysis of the gas which has engulfed Mountview, Wyoming, has now come in. It is carbon monoxide with sulphur oxides, the constituent commonly found in the exhaust of motor vehicles and aeroplanes, widely known as smog … Troops are already investigating the causes of the sudden increase in air pollution … It is understood that just prior to this outbreak a request was made by the world organisation known as Z5 that all governments should immediately begin to investigate the causes of increased concentration in a list of over seventy cities throughout the world … This recommendation, which has the full support of the British Government, followed shortly after the engulfment of a small English village by a gas believed to be very similar to that which has stricken the population of Mountview …”
“Well, if there’d been any hesitation before, there would be none now,” Joyce said. “Sap—”
He looked at her, his expression withdrawn and shocked.
“Yes?”
“Five thousand miles away.”
“I know.”
“It doesn’t make sense.”
“It depends what you mean by sense,” said Palfrey with an effort. “There must be a reason.”
“Sap—”
“Joyce,” Palfrey said, “I know how you feel. But don’t talk, unless you can think of some constructive suggestion.”
“I’m sorry,” Joyce said. “I’m just—baffled. Baffled. When I stop talking all I can see are the people who’ve died—who are dying.”
“And others who might start to die anywhere at any time,” Palfrey said gruffly. “I know. But—”
He broke off as a buzzer sounded and a green light showed on one of the several telephones at his desk. He lifted this instrument, and a girl said: “Superintendent Devine of Winchester would like to speak to you, sir.”
“Yes—put him through,” Palfrey pressed down a switch which broadcast the incoming call into the room through muted loudspeakers in each corner. “Hallo, Superintendent. No more trouble in Sane, I hope.”
“Not in Sane, sir,” Devine said. He hesitated and there was a catch in his breath, warning Palfrey that he had something very unpleasant to say. “They’ve—they’ve disappeared, sir.”
Palfrey thought: “They.” He saw mental pictures of Storr, the two women, young Philip and old Harrison. “All five of them?” he asked, not yet able to assess the significance of this.
“All six, sir.”
“Six? Including Costain?”
“Yes, sir. I—I’m afraid they fooled me about going to Bournemouth. I’d alerted the Bournemouth police and all the roads from Winchester to Bournemouth were under patrol. They started out from the Winchester Hotel and—well, they disappeared somewhere in the New Forest. I’ve an uneasy feeling—” Devine broke off, catching his breath again. “I’ve an uneasy feeling that they had an aircraft somewhere in the Forest.”
“They might have,” agreed Palfrey. He saw Joyce move towards the door, and go out. “If Storr and his household have decamped, we don’t need telling they’re involved, do we?”
“No, sir. There’s one positive thing.”
“Yes.”
“There’s a tunnel from the Manor to Drummond’s place, and in the basement at the Manor a small laboratory with a good sprinkling of Drummond’s fingerprints. So they worked together all right.”
“Anything of importance in the laboratory?” asked Palfrey, sharply.
“Lieutenant Hill is in charge there, sir.”
“I’ll get in touch with him. Thanks, Superintendent.”
“I—I feel pretty sick about it, sir, especially after seeing some of those pictures on television about the town in the United States. Did you expect anything like that here?”
“Let’s say I wasn’t surprised,” said Palfrey gruffly. “Goodnight.”
He flicked the instrument off, and looked at the doorway which Joyce had left ajar. He moved towards the big window and stood looking into the artificial moonlight, and it was difficult to believe that the crescent moon and the dim stars were not real. He heard Joyce come in and turned to face her.
“Why didn’t we know?” he asked helplessly. “Why didn’t we know in time?”
“The information was sent, but it has not yet been passed through to you,” Joyce said. “There were three reports—that the car in which all six were travelling evaded the police watch at the Cadnam Roundabout. Our agents reported that it took the Downton-Salisbury road. The car itself has been located near the Rufus Stone, deep in the Forest, and a helicopter was stored at the back of an old inn, about half a mile away.”
Palfrey said: “That’s better.” He did not ask where the reports had come from: Z5 was so highly organised that he took it for granted that part-time agents had been alerted all over the area and would keep headquarters closely in touch. “And the helicopter?”
“At a guess it looked as if it might be heading for Shannon Airport.”
“Ah,” said Palfrey. “Have them watched without being alarmed. If they fly to the U.S.A.—”
“There is a Boeing 707 of the Dominican Airways due to leave Shannon in an hour and a half,” Joyce told him. “And six seats have been reserved on it for New York in the name of Harrison.”
“Ah—so they made room for Costain,” Palfrey said.
“There’s certainly room,”
Joyce conceded. “Whether they will—well, we shall find out before long.”
“Yes,” said Palfrey. After a pause, he went on: “Is Crabtree still on duty, do you know?”
“He will be, if you want him.”
“Yes,” said Palfrey again. “Did you hear about the laboratory which had Geoffrey Drummond’s prints on it, beneath the Manor?”
“No,” said Joyce, heavily. “So they’d been working together all the time.”
“And we simply have to find out what Grace Drummond knows,” Palfrey said. “I’ll go down, I think. Tell Crabtree I’m on the way, will you? I want to talk to Hill at the Manor. Are we in direct contact?”
“By radio, yes. Shall I tell Control—”
“You tell Crabtree. I’ll go to Control,” Palfrey said.
He knew himself well, was aware of an increasing restlessness which would remain until some clear course of action opened. And at this moment he was simply receiving shock after shock and absorbing each, fitting it into the pattern. There was one ominous fact: if he was right in his suspicions of Storr, the release of the smog in Mountview showed the strength of Storr’s hand – or the hand of those who worked with him. At the back of Palfrey’s mind there was the possibility that Storr was not directly involved and might be under some kind of pressure, but it seemed a thousand to one that he was a prime mover.
And if the smog could saturate two places as far apart as Mountview, Wyoming and Sane, Hampshire, then whoever had caused the saturation might, as easily, be able to wipe out other small places … or whole cities.
Were the two saturations meant as a kind of warning? Would his investigation follow a pattern which seemed to be established when a group of individuals threatened society? He had become all too familiar with the pattern: demonstrations of power, such as these, followed by some form of ultimatum.
Until he knew, there could be no peace within him. There were moments, such as this, when he preferred to be out of his office, where he could get some kind of reassurance by seeing others working, by reminding himself visually of the great organisation behind him and the support now promised for it.
The Control Room was behind the Operations Room. Here, a dozen men were watching the great computers and the calls that were coming in from all over the world – some of them a dozen at a time. The computers, serving different parts of the world, received messages and these were passed along in the form of perforated tape which went through a smaller machine for the message to be translated into any language desired – usually English. On another section, if telephone calls were wanted, almost instant contact would be made anywhere in the world.
A fresh-faced youth was at the radio-telephone control, and scrambled to his feet.
“Good evening, sir.”
“Get me Lieutenant Hill at Sane Manor, will you?”
“I’m having trouble keeping contact there, sir—can’t quite understand it,” said the youth.
“Try again,” Palfrey urged.
He could see Costain’s face in his mind’s eye, and asked himself if there was any possibility that Costain would be able to help. He saw Grace Drummond’s face, set in such awful distress, and wondered if she had any knowledge at all locked in her mind about her husband’s association with Storr. He wondered whether he were right to allow Storr to fly the Atlantic, and not to arrange for the Irish authorities to detain him. This, in one way, was the crux of his case. Storr and his friends were the one positive lead. If he detained them and failed to get the needed information he would have no lead left.
They had to go free, and be trailed.
At Shannon; on the Boeing 707; at Kennedy Airport; on whatever aircraft, road or train they left on, Z5 agents had to trace them, and unless the system broke down Palfrey would soon know their final destination. It might be a very long time before he knew why Storr had taken Costain with him.
If Geoffrey Drummond and Professor Storr had been working together, had Costain also known more than he had admitted? Had he worked with them, supplying his engineering and chemical knowledge? Had he, Palfrey, taken too great a risk in trusting a man without first screening him? He could hardly blame himself; at the time the one vital need had been to try to get a contact in the Storr household. There had not been the slightest reason to suspect that the whole household would decamp. He wondered where young Hill was and why there was no contact with him and with Sane Manor. He watched the fresh-faced youth at the radio control, saw the dozens of messages coming from all parts of the world – and then saw the young face go tense. He moved forward, seeing the swift glance the other shot at him.
At last, the message was received, and the operator, obviously appalled, turned to face Palfrey.
“Sane Manor has been blown up, sir,” he stated precisely. “With the rest of the village and the surrounding countryside. Only one of the Special Unit investigating survived and he’s in hospital and not expected to live.”
Palfrey simply stared, unable, for a second or two, to take in this last disaster. After what seemed a long time, he turned towards the door.
“I shall be down with Dr. Crabtree,” he said, hoarsely.
He meant that he would be down below, trying to make Grace Drummond talk.
Chapter Twelve
The Questioning
The woman lay on the narrow bed, her face wax-like, the face of a corpse. Her flesh had shrunk, leaving her nose more prominent, her chin and cheekbones, too. It was hard to believe that she was breathing. The two men, Palfrey and Crabtree, were outside the room, looking at her through the one way window. Near her pillow were microphones which picked up the slightest sound.
Half an hour earlier, Crabtree had given her an injection which would so sensitise her brain that when the questioning began, she would answer, out of her subconscious.
“Dr. Palfrey,” Crabtree whispered.
“Yes.”
“I do not like the response she gives.”
“Do you mean that she may not live?”
“I mean that if her response was normal she would be stirring by now.”
“We have to try,” Palfrey said.
“If we could allow her another twenty-four hours to regain her strength,” began Crabtree, “she might—”
“We haven’t twenty-four minutes,” said Palfrey.
A light glowed above a telephone fitted to the wall close by him. It was a relief to pick it up.
“Palfrey.”
“Sap,” said Joyce. “Stefan is on the line, from Moscow.”
“Stefan,” echoed Palfrey, and momentarily his heart leapt, this was the first moment of pleasure he had felt during this awful day. Stefan Andromovitch was the second in command of Z5, stationed much of the time in Russia. “Has he given you any idea what he wants?”
“There has been an eruption of smog in a town in the Urals.”
Palfrey said: “I’ll talk to him at once.”
He was staring at the woman and saw her head move, for the first time. There was a faint click in his ear, and he said: “Stefan.”
“Sap,” Stefan Andromovitch said, “there is great anxiety here.”
No preamble; no greeting or pleasantries. On this Z5 ‘hot line’ between Moscow and London there was just the simple statement which told Palfrey that Stefan himself was under great pressure – either of events, or because others were with him.
“There is plenty of anxiety here,” Palfrey remarked.
“How long have you known of the danger?”
“You have been informed hour by hour.”
“Your first emergency intimation was yesterday, then?”
“Yes—the first emergency one.”
Palfrey felt more sure that Stefan had others with him. These would be men whom he was anxious to convince that no information had been kep
t from him. His English was very precise at times, but after he had mixed with English-speaking people for a few days, could be almost colloquial.
“These figures were not taken with sufficient seriousness here.”
“They weren’t taken seriously anywhere,” Palfrey said.
“Is there any hope of finding the source?”
“Hope,” said Palfrey. “There is always hope.”
He saw Grace Drummond’s head move again and her eyes opened and she stared with curious intensity at the ceiling, then towards the window which was to her a black square patch in the wall.
“This Professor Storr?”
“He is about to board a Boeing 707 at Shannon Airport,” Palfrey told Stefan. “He is being followed closely.”
There was a pause, and during it a whisper came from the loudspeaker built into the wall just above the window. Then Grace Drummond’s lips moved.
“No,” the whisper came. “No, I cannot remember.”
Crabtree, some feet away from Palfrey, was speaking to her: “It is of vital importance—did your husband ever visit Professor Storr?”
“Sap,” Stefan Andromovitch said.
“Yes?”
“Why don’t you arrest Professor Storr?”
“I want him to lead us to the main source.”
“Could he not be persuaded to talk?”
“No!” cried Grace Drummond. “No, I never talked business with Geoff. Never!”
“What did he do all day?”
“He was a writer.”
“Where did he write?”
“There was a shed in the garden, he went there for quiet.”
“What did he write?”
“I can’t remember,” she groaned.
“What is the sound in the background?” Stefan asked. “It sounds as if you are in consultation with—”