Laugh Out Dead

by Rupert Harker

  “Such as Siberia?”

  The Colonel laughed. “We are not quite so draconian, Doctor Harker, but there has to be a little give and take. Is it not the same in this country when you first qualify as a doctor; the long hours, the poorly equipped hospitals, and so forth?”

  “In what kind of research were Gorshkov and Dolfin involved?” asked Urban-Smith.

  “You must understand,” insisted Colonel Smirnitsky, “it was the height of the Cold War. The United States was proliferating its nuclear arsenal at an unprecedented rate, and we were terrified that our country could be decimated at any time. Our whole society was riddled with paranoia and suspicion. As a result, we lost perspective. Add to that the fervour of patriotism and the idealism of youth.” He shrugged. “We truly believed in what we were doing, but now, with the threat of annihilation abated and the benefit of age and experience, I see it for what it was; madness, pure madness.

  “But, I am telling you back to front. Let me start at the beginning.”

  ◆◆◆

  14. PROJECT TREMBLE

  “I was recruited to the KGB in the autumn of 1979. I had just been awarded a degree in chemistry from Leningrad State University and, like most students, I had cultivated a keen interest in politics and philosophy. Within a few months of joining, Brezhnev had sent us into Afghanistan, and I found myself stationed near Kabul, assisting the Afghan secret police before being redeployed to Munchkingrad. In view of my scientific education, I was tasked to act as liaison officer for a new project, Praekt Druszet; Project Tremble you would say in English.

  “My first job was to recruit Professor Trofim Gorshkov, though back then he was still Doctor Gorshkov. His work on targeting solid tumours based on their resonant frequencies came to the attention of the Operations and Technology Directorate, who were looking for an answer to MKUltra.”

  “MKUltra? What’s that?” I asked.

  The Colonel opened his mouth to speak, but Urban-Smith pipped him to the post. “MKUltra was a CIA experiment into mind control which ran from the 1950s until the early ‘70s. It involved the use of chemicals, hypnosis and bio-electronics to alter and control human behaviour and cognition. It all came to light a couple of years later.”

  “This is correct,” said the Colonel, “and when we learned what the CIA were doing, we had to create a ‘proportional response,’ as you might call it.

  “What we needed was a weapon that could incapacitate or subjugate a whole army of invading American troops, allowing them to be captured or killed. One of our ideas was to try to target specific areas of the brain in order to bring about mood and behaviour changes, such as terror, euphoria or confusion, and Doctor Gorshkov’s research had potential.”

  “Was he willing to assist you?” I asked.

  “Doctor Gorshkov was a patriot. And a shrewd negotiator.” The Colonel paused to offer us a cigar before lighting himself another and continuing with his narrative. “Gorshkov had ascertained the resonant frequencies of various types of body tissues, focusing mostly on solid tumours. His initial research had been crude, using single-frequency signals, but he had subsequently progressed to combining dual signals, and we asked him to apply his techniques to targeting the central nervous system.

  “Initial results were promising, with reports of dancing cows and disorientated rats, and so the project was given funding. I was instructed to find human subjects for the research.”

  “How did you persuade people to volunteer?”

  The Colonel snorted. “At this time, those found guilty of treason or espionage faced the death penalty. We offered amnesty to the less radical culprits in exchange for their participation.” The Colonel noted my disgusted expression and shrugged. “War is still war, Doctor, no matter how cold. Have no doubt; the Americans were performing exactly the same type of research on their citizens as well. Perhaps worse.

  “As soon as funding was approved, we began recruiting science graduates. They believed that they would be working on a defence system which would disrupt the navigation and propulsion systems of an incoming ballistic missile. Only Doctor Gorshkov and a handful of others knew the true nature of the project.

  “I remember Doctor Gorshkov particularly well; he had a fervour that impressed me greatly, and shared my conviction that in the face of the ever increasing threat from America and its allies, the only defence was a strong offence.”

  “What of Dr Dolfin?” asked Urban-Smith. “Did he realise what he was contributing to?”

  “No, he did not.” Colonel Smirnitsky paused to draw a lungful of smoke from his cigar. “Regarding Project Tremble, it soon became apparent that humans are not quite as sensitive to extreme-low-frequency (ELF) vibrations as our bovine counterparts, and the test subjects showed little or no useful response. We had to find some way to amplify the signals, so we employed a team of electrical engineers, one of whom was the young, but brilliant, Fedya Dolfin.

  “They managed to produce a signal of almost one thousand pascals of sound pressure, and good results were achieved at distances of up to thirty metres, but our brief was to construct an ELF weapon that would prove effective against a platoon of advancing troops at a distance of five hundred metres. Despite our best efforts, we could only achieve a range of two hundred metres, and the necessary ELF signals were so powerful that they caused instability to the foundations of local buildings and disrupted radio and television reception for miles around. Ultimately, we were able to make the signals more focused, but the results were unpredictable and the equipment unreliable, often shaking itself apart or overheating. The whole project was abandoned after a few years and the money ploughed into nuclear proliferation. Gorshkov, Dolfin and the other scientists resumed their regular research activities, and Project Tremble was laid to rest; or so it seemed.

  “Last week, Rostislav received an anonymous telephone call from someone claiming to have a working version of Project Tremble and offering it for sale for fifty million US dollars. I spoke to my superiors at the Kremlin (reluctantly I might add) and was advised that the FSB had no interest in resurrecting the project. This came as a great relief to me, as I now consider the whole endeavour inhuman, barbaric even. When the caller made contact again, Rostislav informed them of our decision. The next day, he fell victim to ‘the LOL curse,’ as your English press has so colourfully described it.

  “In my position as a visiting emissary, I must appear aloof, but Rostislav was my friend, and I want this matter dealt with swiftly and decisively. I can see to it that you are both well compensated for your efforts.”

  “I really think that we should pass this information on to Detective Inspector Gadget,” I said. “It may assist him in catching the Ambassador’s killer.”

  “You gave me your promise, gentlemen,” the Colonel replied. “Now, let me give you mine. If you breathe a word of what I have told you to any other living soul, I shall have you peeled, washed in vinegar and slowly chopped into tiny pieces and fed to the fish.”

  “Careful, Colonel,” I counselled. “Comments of that nature could be construed as a threat.”

  “Why involve us at all?” asked Urban-Smith. “The police have infinitely greater resources and influence than we do. Surely your best hope of a satisfactory outcome lies with them.”

  “Your police,” he sneered, “are riddled with corruption and petty rivalries. Even worse, they have a civic duty and public accountability that renders them unfit for matters of such delicacy. You, on the contrary, Mr Urban-Smith, have a reputation bordering on legendary. I would sooner trust this affair to the both of you than the whole of the London police fraternity.”

  Urban-Smith regarded the Colonel for a while in silence. Clearly, the cogs were whirring.

  “Very well, Colonel,” Urban-Smith acceded. “We will endeavour to assist. You said that only a handful of people were aware of Project Tremble’s true purpose. Who were those people, and what do you know of their current activities?”

  “There were of course those in
the KGB who knew the scope of the project, but they did not interest themselves in the technical aspects, just whether it worked and what it would cost.

  “The exact details were known to very few; Doctor Gorshkov; Andrei Butusov, who worked closely with Gorshkov; Doctors Sofia Grekov and Vanya Ubysh, the physicians who monitored and treated the test subjects; a few security guards, who ensured that the subjects neither strayed nor injured anybody; and (of course) myself and my secretary, Galina Chuchnyk.

  “Doctors Grekov and Ubysh married and have moved to New Zealand. Galina Chuchnyk is also married and lives in Munchkingrad, and the security guards have remained in the motherland, though only one of them still works, the others having retired. There were about a hundred staff attached to the project, but I think these are the only ones who had any detailed knowledge. Praekt Druszet, like all of Schwarzkröte’s special projects, was an exceptionally well-guarded secret.”

  “Schwarzkröte?” I clarified. “Not very Russian.”

  Urban-Smith became motionless except for his hands, which writhed and convulsed as I had observed earlier that day. That he was experiencing an inner turmoil of some intensity was clearly apparent to the Colonel as well.

  “The name Schwarzkröte is familiar, Mr Urban-Smith?”

  There was no answer.

  “Who is he?” I asked.

  “Dr Saxon Schwarzkröte,” said Colonel Smirnitsky, “is a West German chemist who defected to the Eastern Bloc in the mid 1970s. After proving his value to the establishment, he was recruited to Laboratory Twelve. When Laboratory Twelve became part of the Institute for Special Technology, he was promoted to acting Head of Special Projects in Munchkingrad. Project Tremble was his brainchild.”

  “Laboratory Twelve was the Soviet poisons laboratory, was it not?” I said. “I believe I read an article about it in The Walnut.”

  “You are correct, Doctor. By the mid ‘80s, Schwarzkröte had moved to Moscow and become the Director of the Institute, but after the collapse of the Soviet Union, he was suspected of selling obsolete military technology to Kurdish rebels in Turkey and placed under house arrest.

  “He was ultimately exonerated, but disappeared a few weeks later. On the night he was last seen in Moscow, four senior FSB agents were taken ill during a state dinner and died in hospital from radiation poisoning. Each was found to have been poisoned with the metal, polonium. Polonium is very rare, highly radioactive and was the tool of choice in Schwarzkröte-sanctioned assassinations in the 1990s. Since his departure from the FSB, it is much less commonly used.”

  “Do you think that this Schwarzkröte character may be behind this LOL curse?” I asked.

  “I am sure of it.”

  “Where is Schwarzkröte now?”

  “It is difficult to say. It is rumoured that he has had facial reconstruction surgery at the hands of the most skilled surgeons in Europe. Were he sat beside me right now, I might not recognise him.”

  “These calls to Ambassador Vishminakov; did you recognise the caller’s voice?”

  “They used a voice scrambler, and we were unable to trace the number.”

  “Blast!” expectorated Urban-Smith. “He is as cunning as a canid with an abacus.”

  The Colonel withdrew a small digital recorder from his pocket, pressed play, and a harsh robotic drawl drifted to us through the cigar smoke.

  CALLER: Is that Mr Rostislav Vishminakov?

  ROSTISLAV VISHMINAKOV: Speaking. Who is this?

  CALLER: I have something very important for you. Are you familiar with Praekt Druszet?

  R V: Praekt Druszet? What is that?

  CALLER: Colonel Smirnitsky knows what it is. Tell him that it has been reactivated, and I can offer it for sale. Fifty million U.S. Tell him to find the money quickly, or my next call is to the Chechnyans. I’ll contact you again in six hours.

  R V: Hello? Hello?

  The Colonel switched off the recorder and returned it to his pocket. “Do you recognise this voice?”

  “Metal Mickey?” suggested Urban-Smith.

  I shook my head. “Optimus Prime, perhaps?”

  “Very amusing.” The Colonel rose. “I believe that this concludes our meeting. Goodbye, gentlemen. I trust that you will keep me informed of your progress.”

  He motioned towards the window, and our two escorts from earlier re-entered the room, beckoning for us to leave with them. We were led across the deck, down the gangplank and back to the black saloon. As before, Urban-Smith and I squeezed into the back seat with one huge Russian at our side and the other riding in the front, until we were politely deposited in front of number sixteen, Chuffnell Mews just before half past ten.

  Urban-Smith waited until the car was out of sight before breaking the silence. “This adds a disturbing new perspective to the case.”

  “Indeed,” said I. “I never would have thought Metal Mickey capable of extortion.”

  “I have always had my suspicions. Have you noticed how you never see him in the same room with Idi Amin?”

  With that, he unlocked the door and bade me goodnight, retiring directly to his chambers. A few minutes later, there came the sound of Beethoven’s Fifth played on the kazoo, and as I reached for my earplugs, I knew that my friend and landlord was a soul in torment.

  ◆◆◆

  15. THE FERVENT FIST

  Friday 10th November

  I slept poorly, the plaintive wail of Urban-Smith’s nocturnal kazoodling causing a restless stirring in my being, well into the small hours. As a result, I woke late and with a dull pain behind the eyes, which required several slices of toast and a cup of sweet tea to alleviate.

  Urban-Smith and I stared listlessly at one another across the breakfast table as Mrs Denford clucked and gibbered about us.

  “Had I possessed the energy,” I said, “I would have come to your room at about four o’clock and inserted that kazoo into your colon.”

  “Where would you have found a stepladder at such an hour?”

  “I’m not that small.”

  “You’re in denial, Rupert. Why else would you choose a medical speciality where all your clients are either laid down or divided into handy pieces?”

  “I hope it was worth it, Fairfax. I hope that I have not sacrificed a good night’s sleep in vain, for I have a hot date tomorrow night and, all being well, I shall need my wits and strength about me.”

  We brooded for a while and shovelled toast into our mouths.

  “I am sorry to say that I feel no closer to resolving this matter,” Urban-Smith lamented. “Quite the contrary; if we are up against Doctor Saxon Schwarzkröte without the aid of the constabulary, then I fear we are very much in King Canute’s soggy shoes.”

  Urban-Smith shuddered, apprehension etched upon his face. “Saxon Schwarzkröte; it is a name that inspires dread, for to hear it is a sure sign that iniquity and flagitiousness cannot be far away.

  “His is the unseen hand that tips the scales, the whisper beneath the shout, the invisible, but palpable pall that hangs over the city. He is at the conception of every calamity, corruption, conspiracy or political scandal born in the Metropolis, yet all attempts to locate or apprehend him are futile. He has been rendered invulnerable by those who choose to protect him.”

  “But it makes no sense,” I protested. “How could a former Soviet scientist have managed to acquire such power in London?”

  “It is alleged that since his estrangement from the KGB, he has been recruited by the Illuminati. He is apparently Head of Tactical Operations for The Fervent Fist.”

  Before I could ask the obvious, he leapt from his chair.

  “Good Lord, is that the time? I am supposed to be meeting Wendell at nine-thirty. I’m sorry, Rupert; we will liaise again this evening. TTFN.”

  *

  I arrived at my workplace a little after ten, by which time my clients were somewhat stacking up. I was distracted and perturbed by the previous night’s revelations, and each autopsy took me far longer than usual. Rather t
han trying in vain to battle through my in-tray, I decided to leave work after lunch, with a view to returning early on Monday morning to catch up on paperwork.

  I spent the afternoon skittering about the internet, seeking enlightenment regarding the Illuminati, for I could see that it was likely to feature prominently in Urban-Smith’s investigation. I will confess to becoming peeved with the sensation of ignorance that washed over me whenever I spoke to Urban-Smith on matters paranormal or arcane, and desired for once to have a working knowledge of the subject.

  According to various internet sources, the Illuminati was a secret society formed in the eighteenth century by one Professor Adam Weishaupt, a fierce libertarian who was frustrated by the failure of the Freemasons to advance the cause of freedom in Europe. He envisioned the Illuminati as a group that would fight for truth, justice and liberty for all, but was met with strong opposition from the Church and state. In 1785 Weishaupt was exiled from Bavaria, and his group permanently disbanded.

  Subsequently, the term Illuminati has become attached to an apocryphal, clandestine, ruling elite, dedicated to keeping power and wealth in the hands of selected bloodlines (including our beloved Royal family, the Rothschilds and even the Disneys) via the subjugation of the many by the few.

  In order to advance this agenda, this secret society manipulates and controls world affairs, progressively suppressing independent regimes and replacing them with large, centralised hubs of power, such as the European Union, with the ultimate goal of creating a ‘New World Order,’ comprising a global, unified state, army and government.