by John Creasey
“Why wait for tonight?” asked Palfrey. “You’ll be staying here for the time being, and there isn’t a reason in the world why you shouldn’t take a nap now.” When Philip started to protest, he went on: “Try for half an hour. If you haven’t dropped off to sleep by then, you can put a full report onto a tape, every tiny word or gesture you can remember.”
“That’s a deal,” Philip agreed, stifling another yawn.
His room was a large one on the floor above, with an even better view over the walled garden. The ceiling was high and was beautifully ornamented, the huge bed had carved head and foot panels which might have been taken from an altar or some great fireplace. Next to it was a huge bathroom with a big bath which stood on splay-footed iron legs. The bath itself was flowered, in a great variety of colours, like the tiles of the surround, and the brass taps were so enormous that they seemed large enough to fill a Roman bath.
There were blue pyjamas.
“Ridiculous,” he said as he got into them.
“Winston Churchill always got into pyjamas for his afternoon nap – or are you too young to remember him?” asked Palfrey.
“I can remember the legends,” Philip retorted.
Once he was in bed he was warm and snug and comfortable. The fumes of sleep crept over him and he realised the simple truth: just as he had drugged Janey to sleep, so Palfrey had drugged him. Even the thought of Janey did not hurt; he was too tired to think.
But Palfrey wasn’t too tired to think, and nor was Stefan Andromovitch.
“We need the whole area surrounded by troops as well as police,” Palfrey said, “and we haven’t an hour to spare. The only hope is to persuade the Prime Minister to give the orders at once. I’ll go to Downing Street, Stefan. You get over to HQ and see Joyce, and get things moving there.”
“Sap,” Stefan said, “if there is a chance in a thousand, save Philip’s woman. I beg you.”
“As I see it, at best there’s a chance in a million,” Palfrey declared. “Preventing the VIPs from getting away is absolute priority.”
They stood and studied each other for a moment, two men who had been close friends for years, who were the leaders of Z5 – although one was a Russian citizen, subject to the Kremlin’s laws, and Palfrey so very much an Englishman.
Without another word, Palfrey turned and hurried off.
9: Of Dr Palfrey
Dr ‘Sap’ Palfrey was one of the best-known men in England, in the United Kingdom, some said, in the world. His name was synonymous with doom and disaster, yet also synonymous with hope; there was much fear of him and there was as much fear for him.
He was, in fact, a bundle of paradoxes.
He was the leader of the organisation known as Z5, and widely renowned because of his association with it; yet much of what he did and much of what Z5 did was highly confidential.
He had the trust of governments, from the extreme left, such as China, Russia and even little Albania; and from the right, including Portugal and Spain. Yet no single government – not even Britain’s – could claim his whole allegiance, for his first loyalty was to the world. There could be no more characteristic nor more loyal Englishman, yet he saw himself as belonging to all nations, and his agents and his friends were drawn from every country and from many races, colours and religions. In fact his closest friend was the Russian Stefan Andromovitch, second in command of Z5.
It was years since these two men had met except at times of crisis, for the world’s turbulence created crises of itself. But there were other dangers, threats to the world, which had nothing directly to do with the state of the world or of the hostilities between nations. During the time when Palfrey and Andromovitch had worked together in Z5 there had been many drastic changes in attitudes, in societies, and in science. Perhaps the greatest change had been in science; apart from putting men on the moon and so beginning the conquest of space and of the universe, there had been a whole series of scientific revolution. Once, the greatest threat to international security had come from warlike nations set on conquest, led by such as Hitler. The might of a great nation had to be geared for such a war. Today, one man with a few assistants could hold in the palm of his right hand sufficient power to conquer and control the world.
It was against such men as these that Z5 was organised; against danger from the most unexpected places, and against danger presented in the most unexpected ways.
It was almost unbelievable how many men saw themselves as messiahs, as God-inspired rulers of the world. And it was as unbelievable how many people, in small nations, in sects, in political groups, could be persuaded to believe in such messiahs. Some were on the lunatic fringe, some could strike terror in one place or one small part of the world, such as the Mansons of Hollywood and Death Valley with their ritual murders, and there were some who could inspire burning faith in thousands of people in dozens of places.
Among these were genuine leaders of men, although many more charlatans. And among these charlatans, if Palfrey was right, were the leaders of the venture which, so far, he knew only as The Project.
He knew a little of this: more than he had yet allowed Philip Carr to know. Philip had done a remarkable job but in doing it had almost crucified himself, perhaps broken his nerve for all time. Sometimes, important Z5 agents underwent a period of emotional torment, and whenever he had reason to suspect this, Palfrey sent them off on a mission that paralleled a holiday, for they might not be able to do their job as objectively as they should. Any failure could be disastrous; so, it was essential never knowingly to take the slightest risk of failure.
One of the astounding facts that he had discovered was the extent of the hunger and thirst for freedom and for justice in men. Men who were virtually slaves, men who served these would-be rulers and these demigods would often risk their lives, risk torture, risk their families, to tell Z5 what was going on. So, word had come over a period of a year or more about The Project. First one man who had served out his year at The Project would telephone Z5 and report his uneasiness, for there was a number in the London Telephone Directory for the organisation, as well as a number for S. A. Palfrey; eventually another and another would call. Each told a little, but when all the pieces were added together the picture was ugly and alarming.
Some, Palfrey believed, were suspected by the VIPs and killed in what appeared to be accidents.
One of the earliest men to telephone had used the phrase VIPs, and it had stuck. He had actually called while working for The Project. This man had said: “Take it from me, Mr Palfrey, that place is like a flickin’ concentration camp. Talk about forced labour! There must be five or six hundred of them who do what they’re told or lose their hides for it . . . The Project, they call it . . . Then there’s the professional class, see?” He actually pronounced the word ‘perfessional’. “The chemists and scientists and the office wallahs, you know . . . And then there’s the VIPs. One of them’s called Ashley, he’s a cold-blooded swine if ever I saw one. Another’s Parsons, he’s not so bad . . .”
When he had finished, every word being taped on a small recorder attached to Palfrey’s telephone, Palfrey had asked: “How did you manage to get to a telephone?”
“Had to drive one of the VIPs – trusted, that’s me! He’s interviewing applicants for jobs in a village pub and I sneaked out to the telephone kiosk. I—strewth! Here he comes.”
The line had gone dead.
Not long afterwards one of Palfrey’s men had answered an advertisement for a research worker in crystallography, and been given the job, and had never been heard of again. A second agent managed one telephone call, listing names of some of the better known physicists at The Project, but before he had finished he had been cut off, and Palfrey had no idea where he had called from. He felt a tearing sense of urgency as he was driven from Chelsea towards Whitehall. He did not know Anthony Wetherall, the recently elected Prime Minister very well, although they had met when he had been Leader of the Opposition. Wetherall was that rare mode
rn creature, a politician with an intellectual rather than an emotional approach. He would not be stampeded into helping, he would want cold facts.
The chief anxiety in Palfrey’s mind was that he might take too long to decide.
A light showed in the back of the driver’s seat. McMurray, the driver, was one of the oldest agents in Z5, where the casualty rate was high; he was still one of the best drivers, invaluable especially in traffic. Palfrey leaned closer to the greying, bullet-shaped head to pick up the receiver built into the back of the seat.
“Palfrey,” he said.
“This is Joyce,” said Joyce Morgan, his secretary and confidante for many years. She had recently married a man met in one of Palfrey’s investigations, and was back only temporarily to help with this particular task. “Some results from questioning the prisoners caught in the cars, Sap.”
“Ah. Good.”
“Only one talked,” went on Joyce. “He is an Italian named Mario Correlli with a criminal record, once involved in the bomb throwing in Italy during some riots there. He is an extreme right-winger – the kind who used to follow Mussolini.”
“Ah,” breathed Palfrey.
“He has worked for The Project for three years, as pilot and chauffeur to VIPs,” Joyce went on.
“Ah!” exclaimed Palfrey again, and his heart leapt with fresh hope.
“He names Ashley and Parsons and also a man who gives them orders and who appears to be in command at The Project. The man is known as Ramon – just Ramon. He is always disguised when he leaves The Project area, wearing a false auburn-coloured beard and moustache. His voice is very metallic and resonant. When going in and out of The Project’s plant he flies by a lift-off jet, they have three there, all used by VIPs.” That was something Philip hadn’t known. “And Sap—”
Palfrey said: “Yes,” but the word was drowned by the sudden roar of an engine close by him. McMurray shot the car forward, in case this was an attack, but it was a bareheaded youth with a pretty blonde beside him, obviously showing off. “Yes,” Palfrey repeated, more loudly.
“The VIPs fly to another underground plant in France and one in Western Germany. Correlli has also flown them across the Atlantic but they are taken to their destination by conventional plane from a private airfield near Boston, and he doesn’t know where they go.”
Palfrey’s teeth were gritting, as the full impact of this struck home – not one Project plant, but several. He had warned agents throughout the world to look out for such a plant but this was the first positive news that others existed.
“Go on,” he said.
“The last thing might be the most important,” Joyce said. “Philip Carr’s escape caused something like panic. He thinks they are planning to leave The Project. Correlli and seven other men sent after him had orders to try to find his destination and to kill him before he entered any house or building. We got him only just in time.” Joyce paused, and there was a change in the tone of her voice. “He said that Philip’s girlfriend was taken immediately to what he calls the Torture Room, but he left before she had been put under any pressure. He does not think there is much hope for her.”
“Keep that from Philip for the time being,” ordered Palfrey.
“Of course.”
“What made Correlli talk?” Palfrey asked. “Did we have to use much pressure?”
“Very little,” Joyce answered. “He says that he couldn’t stand the life there any longer, that he’s been thinking of escaping for months, but all the aircraft and all the cars they use can be destroyed by remote control. He doesn’t know why this one wasn’t – when our men raided it, he expected the car and everyone in it and nearby to be blown up. It was probably because they hadn’t the slightest indication that they were surrounded and the man in charge of the party didn’t send out an alarm.”
Palfrey wanted to ask: “Who is the man in charge?” but he stopped himself. There was now no shadow of doubt; they must try to raid The Project. They were driving along Birdcage Walk, with St James’ Park on one side looking fresh and colourful with huge beds of flowers, and the Guards’ Museum on the other, so they were nearly at Downing Street; a policeman, warned by walkie-talkie, was already holding up traffic so that McMurray could swing left, towards the Horse Guards. So he said: “Call me at Number 10 if anything else comes in.”
“I will,” Joyce promised.
The car turned the corner, and then into the approach to the steps which led up to Downing Street. As it stopped, two policemen came forward, one to open the door, the other to escort Palfrey through the wrought-iron gate into Downing Street. A dozen or so people were standing opposite and several newspapermen stood about, cameras much in evidence. As Palfrey approached more policemen outside Number 10 itself, one newspaperman called out: “There’s Palfrey.”
Another said clearly: “Z5 can’t be involved in this!” And as he spoke, several cameras flashed. More flashed and the crowd surged forward as the plain, black-painted door was opened, and a small dark-skinned man came hurrying out: Palfrey recognised the Ambassador of one of the African states recently involved with a neighbouring state over mineral rights close to the frontier. This man turned towards a car, waiting for him, then caught sight of Palfrey, and stood still.
“Good morning, Excellency,” Palfrey said.
“Good morning, Dr Palfrey.” The Ambassador’s voice was very deep and attractive; although a little overweight for his medium height, he was an impressive looking man. “Are you concerned with my country’s problems?”
“Not to my knowledge,” Palfrey assured him.
The other’s face lit up with a vivid smile, a flash of very white teeth.
“I am not sure whether to be pleased or sorry about that!” He went to his car and Palfrey stepped into Number 10.
As he did so, there was a sharp change in the atmosphere; subdued lights instead of bright day, soft carpets, a complete lack of urgency. It was this air of leisureliness which impressed Palfrey most, for the last incumbent of Number 10 had infused a sense of haste, vigour, urgency, into everything he did. An elderly man came forward, a familiar face; at least Wetherall hadn’t changed all the staff.
“Good morning, Dr Palfrey.”
“Good morning, Sill. Nice to see you again.”
“Thank you, sir.” Sill moved along the hall to the stairs. “Please come up. Mr Wetherall will see you at once.”
So at least there would be no formal delays.
“Good,” Palfrey said, and stood aside as Sill opened a door at the head of the stairs, a room which Palfrey had never entered on official business before. It was comparatively small, and its one window overlooked Downing Street, so it was very bright. One wall was lined with leather-bound books, and most of the room was taken up with a large, green leather-topped desk, two big armchairs and two coffee tables. Two books were on a table close to the far chair, and Palfrey had time to see that one was Africa Wakes by one of the shrewdest London foreign correspondents, and the other was Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, before Wetherall came in from a room which led from a corner.
Water was gurgling.
Wetherall was nearly as tall as Palfrey, a lean, austere-looking man with a silvery-coloured hair, cut rather short, a lined face with a healthy glow. He wore a dark suit which fitted perfectly on his square shoulders and flat stomach. His eyes, the lids wrinkled, the corners criss-crossed with tiny lines, were clear, bright grey. His hand was cold, his grip firm.
“Good afternoon, Dr Palfrey,” he said, and motioned to the near armchair, the one farther from the books. “Do sit down.” He himself sat down easily, hitching up his perfectly creased trousers. “I dislike starting an interview in the way that I must, but no matter how vital the cause of your visit, I have exactly sixteen minutes to devote to it. Will you have a drink? Brandy perhaps?” He put a white hand out towards the bottle casket and his fingers hovered.
“No thank you,” Palfrey said, settling back in his chair. No two men co
uld have looked less harried or hurried. “I have established that there is an extremely dangerous plant, mostly underground, where we permitted some experimental nuclear research by an industrial consortium. The plant is known to be experimenting, among other things, on nuclear power. It appears to use forced labour, with probably five or six hundred people working there, as well as some of our best physicists, who go on very high salaries.” He paused in his slow and deliberate speech, as if to give Wetherall a chance to speak, but the Prime Minister sat silently relaxed and yet intent; his eyes, catching the window light, were very bright indeed. “I had much suspicion but no certainty of this, and managed to get some Z5 agents taken on as employees. Some died, in accidents which were probably murders, but one escaped from this place last night. It is probable that its leaders will attempt to leave the plant, some by rocket aircraft. It is equally possible that rather than allow anyone to take possession of it, the plant will be destroyed. Yet I think it vital” – Palfrey gave a deprecating little smile as he used the word – “to take possession of it quickly. What I would like, sir, is your immediate instruction to the police as well as the Air Force and the Army to take my orders to carry out a raid within the next hour or two.”
He finished, and placed his hands on the arms of his chair.
It was quite impossible to judge how Wetherall was reacting, for he sat as relaxed and still silent as ever.
10: Quick Decision
The silence seemed to last for a long time – interminably. Palfrey retained his pose, even to a point of nonchalance, but his heart was thumping. Minutes could make a difference; an hour could make the difference between success and utter failure. And with the time limit Wetherall had set, there was no time for offering proof or for argument.
Quietly, the Prime Minister said: “Will you answer two questions, Palfrey?”