by John Creasey
‘Think she knows where her uncle is?’ asked Craigie, softly.
With that question, the tension seemed to rise in the office. Obviously it was a key one, and was vital.
‘No,’ Murray said, and hesitated, and then asked: ‘Don’t you know?’
‘No,’ said Craigie, with great precision. ‘Meya Kamil disappeared nearly a week ago. Just before he went, we found unassailable evidence that there is an island-wide plot to overthrow the present government, and to undermine British influence and British rule. A dictatorship is to be set up. It’s been developing for some time. We’ve known that, and our Middle East agents and some of the other Intelligence Departments have been working on it, but no one knew how extensive it was. Probably no one knows that yet, but’—Craigie glanced towards the steel cabinets, and then back at Murray—’we have a fair idea. They’ve planned a short, violent, and deadly campaign. There are many secret stores of arms all over the island. They’re going to find a martyr, too—and the islanders look on Meya Kamil almost as a god. I expect you know that.’
Murray nodded, without speaking; and he looked as if he could see beyond, to what Craigie was going to add.
‘They call Meya Kamil the Good Man,’ Craigie went on almost pedantically, ‘and there’s no doubt that to most of the islanders he’s the positive symbol of goodness. That really began about twenty years ago, when there was an earthquake whick destroyed several villages and damaged three towns really badly. Meya Kamil organised relief and performed some amazing acts of courage.’
‘I remember reading about it,’ Murray said. ‘Wasn’t there something about spiders which are deadly to human beings, but which didn’t harm him?’
‘You probably know almost as much as we do,’ said Craigie. ‘Yes. There’s a species of black spider on the island with a poisonous bite fatal to most people and animals. They’re in the mountainous regions in the south-west —where the earthquake struck. The earthquake split one of the mountains, and disturbed great swarms of spiders living there—partly underground. They invaded a village, several people were bitten and killed, and there was panic. Meya Kamil took a locust spray and walked into the spiders, killing thousands—and although he was bitten, he didn’t suffer. There’s a medical explanation, of course, but to the simple people of Canna it seemed as if he was under divine protection. He was always popular; this made him worshipped. And with Judge Lang, he obtained many concessions for the island.
‘Whitehall knew his power—and encouraged him, for he was always pro-British. As an earnest of readiness to put government into the hands of the colonial people, Meya Kamil was made Governor, and the island is virtually self- governed—its House of Representatives is ninety per cent native. Lang had always campaigned for that.’ Craigie paused, and then added as if casually: ‘Did you know that Judge Lang married Meya Kamil’s sister?’
Murray nodded.
‘The history of the island is one of almost uninterrupted friendliness towards Great Britain,’ Craigie went on, in the same pedantic way. ‘It’s a poor island, barren in many places, but the people are industrious, and with some British financial aid they get along comfortably. It isn’t the paradise that Meya Kamil and Judge Lang claimed, it’s far too poor; but until recently the people have been contented, and their conditions are much better than in most Arab states on the mainland. There has been the odd hostile politician, of course, one or two communists, one or two extreme nationalists who wanted to break away from Britain and win complete independence, or join forces with the Arabs. But until a few weeks ago these men had no real influence. Recently, their influence has been getting much stronger at an alarming rate, and it could very easily become dangerous, because . . .’
Craigie paused again, watching Murray closely.
Murray seemed to be intensely interested, but not really surprised. A newspaperman in his position would probably be among the few people who had reason to hear rumours of discontent and talk of rebellion in Canna.
Loftus had his great hands folded across his stomach, and his eyes were narrowed. Miller hadn’t moved.
Craigie moved now, took a photograph out of a drawer, and handed it to Murray. It was a picture of Meya Kamil, a photograph taken by a man with a touch of genius.
The man’s ‘goodness’ seemed to show as part of the portrait. Here was a saint. The gentle expression, the soft features, the patient eyes set deeply, all pointed to that.
Murray handed the photograph back.
‘It could become dangerous because a whispering campaign had been started among the islanders,’ went on Craigie at last. ‘It claims that we intend to displace Meya Kamil, as we displaced the Kabaka of Buganda not long ago, and as we’ve displaced other colonial leaders, like Seretse Khama and Archbishop Makarios. The trouble is that although we are apt to forget such differences after they’ve been settled, the Asian mind is far less forgetful. Asians have long memories—and often very good reasons for it, they’ve had too many raw deals. This rumour that we intend to displace Meya Kamil is becoming so strong that it’s disaffecting Cannan leaders who have always been pro-British. So—well, I needn’t go on,’ finished Craigie abruptly. ‘Our job’s self-evident. We have to reassure the islanders. Until we find Meya Kamil, we can’t. And if we don’t find him soon. I think the island will be in a state of uproar, and it may well lead to one of the ugliest situations we’ve faced as a nation, one that could be the beginning of the end of Colonial rule and of British influence in Africa and Asia. Canna is a model colony, the best we have, the best that we can do. If that breaks away . . .’
Craigie stopped.
‘You really don’t know where Meya Kamil is, do you?’ Murray said in a voice as quiet as Craigie’s, and to himself he added: ‘And you think I might be able to help find him.’
10. Facts
‘No,’ agreed Craigie, ‘we’ve no idea where Meya Kamil is. In fact we don’t know much more than you. We now know that he sent his niece away—our agents on the island sent us word as soon as they knew—and we can assume that was because he expected some kind of danger. He didn’t tell the British Resident—in fact he told no one that he expected anything to go wrong. He disappeared after making arrangements for the girl to leave.
‘We were watching the house in Hampstead, where she was to stay with relations. When she didn’t turn up, we put out a call for her—and we’ve told you about our man who nearly found her.’
Murray said gruffly: ‘Well, something is beginning to add up; I couldn’t even start to guess what got into the policeman and the subaltern at the cottage.’
It was the first time he had consciously thought of the officer since stepping into the helicopter; and now he saw a vivid picture of the youngster’s head after the bomb explosion. He clenched his teeth, for he could almost feel the heat of the fire again.
There was Oundle, too, and the other dead agent.
‘Do you think Juanita Lang knows where her uncle is?’ Murray asked abruptly.
‘We think she might have some idea,’ Craigie said. ‘It’s pretty evident that someone thinks she could talk, or she wouldn’t have been kidnapped and questioned, and there wouldn’t have been such desperate efforts to kill her rather than allow us to get her.’
Murray said slowly: ‘That’s a point. What happened to the many you caught near the cottage?’
‘He won’t talk much.’
‘No way of making him?’
‘We’d make him if we thought he knew anything worth while,’ Loftus put in, and went on quietly: ‘He says he was told to go with the others and get the girl back. Then our man tried to help her. They reached your garden, and Juanita went one way, our man another to try to draw their fire. Juanita herself has said that, now, and the prisoner confirms it. She hid inside the well, not thinking she’d have to stay so long. Then you turn up, and the prisoner and the others went back to Cliff House for instructions. But there’d been a panic at Cliff House. A man named Mikolas, who had rented it from Mr.
Abbott, realised that the house wasn’t safe, and he cleared out. We don’t know where he went. We do know that the men you fought had to telephone for instructions, and that as a result of the telephone call, the Spitfire was sent to destroy the cottage—and the girl.’
Loftus broke off.
‘Does the prisoner know where to telephone?’ Murray asked slowly.
‘He says not. He insists that only one man had the number and was killed. Nothing found on him suggests that he’s lying, but—we haven’t stopped trying,’ Loftus added dryly. ‘And we’re trying to trace the take-off and flight of that Spitfire.’
‘Nothing useful found at Cliff House?’
‘Only that a dozen or more Cannans stayed there with Mikolas,’ said Loftus. ‘As it is, we’re almost back where we started from—with the one or two significant differences you know about.’
Murray said: ‘The trouble in the island only came into the open yesterday, didn’t it?’
‘The first trouble, yes; but indications are that the revolt is extremely well prepared,’ Craigie put in. ‘The balloon’s about to go up in the island, and we still can’t produce Meya Kamil. If we could show that he’s alive and well, and prove that we’d no intention of displacing him, the trouble would probably be over in a few days. Well, you’ve a pretty close look at the situation now, Murray. Reached any conclusions?’
Murray said mildly: ‘Let me have a few more guesses first. You’ve got to find out whether Juanita Lang knows where her uncle is, or whether she’s telling the truth.’
Craigie nodded.
‘And you’d like me to find out, as she has reason to be grateful to me,’ went on Murray dryly.
Craigie said slowly: ‘Yes, Murray, that’s it. She is heavily in your debt, of course. She’s young and impressionable and you might be able to influence her. She lived with the Good man of Canna’s family much of her life, and probably knows more about it than anyone else we can question. We want you to get all the information you can from her, even if she doesn’t know where Meya Kamil is—she may know much more than she’s said about the political situation. She may know a great deal which we don’t, too, simply because she’s lived so close to Meya Kamil for years.’
‘I can try,’ Murray said. ‘But what else are you going to do? Surely you’ve some means...’
‘Every known Cannan in England is being watched, because we’ve suspected a plot of some kind for months,’ Craigie said. ‘But we didn’t get on to Mikolas until it was too late. He lives in Cairo, we didn’t associate him with Canna, and—well, we’re concentrating on this job now, because it could be vital.’
Murray nodded.
‘There’s another thing,’ Craigie went on. ‘The girl might be attacked again. If she is, we must catch her assailant alive.’
Murray said bleakly: ‘Yes. I see.’
Craigie took the pipe from his lips, tapped it out and put it in the rack, and then stood up.
‘Come over here a minute, will you?’ he asked, and moved towards the office end of the room. ‘I want to show you one of our records—a kind of debit and credit account.’
He opened a drawer in one of the desks, and took the book out. He let a few of the pages flutter through his fingers, and then opened it at random at a page which was filled with names. Just names. One of them was Wyatt— that was at the top, and the date beside it was two years old. And at the foot of the same page was Wyatt, Jane Robina. Against some of the names, including Wyatt’s there was a small black mark.
Craigie said: ‘That’s a book with a list of all the Department Z agents in it. I’ve kept it for nearly thirty years. Have a look at page one.’
Murray did so, feeling his heart beating fast, knowing a tension which was almost as acute as any at the cottage. The first name on the list was Davidson. Then came two of the same name—Best, Michael, Best, Martin. There were twenty or more names on one page—and only three were without a little black mark.
One of those three was: ‘Loftus, William.’
‘The debit balance is pencilled in at the foot of each page,’ said Craigie. ‘The black mark means that the agent didn’t live to see a job through—as Oundle probably won’t see this one through—and as Davis, our man killed last night, was killed. We’ve had a total of over four hundred and twenty-three agents since we began, and the active service deaths are two hundred and thirty-seven.’
Craigie watched Murray closely as he spoke.
‘I see,’ Murray said, and his mouth was dry. ‘My chances if I join you?’
‘That’s right,’ said Craigie. ‘Your chances at their rosiest. This is a far worse affair than many. The Cannan revolutionaries are desperate—and they’re obviously stopping at nothing, and it’s at boiling point already. I should say your chances of coming through are about one in four.’
Murray said: ‘Poor odds!’ A grim little smile played about his lips. ‘May I be sordid? Salary?’
‘All your expenses, and two thousand pounds a year,’ said Craigie promptly. ‘If you join, you stay in the Department—we can’t afford to release you, because you’d learn too much. You can keep in with a newspaper job, of course, that would be an excellent cover, but once you’re in, the Department must have absolute priority, and you’re in it for life.’
‘Short but merry,’ Murray said, and his smile crept into his eyes. ‘So everything I’ve heard about you people is right. The Department of Doomed Men is how I heard it put not so long ago. Hmm. The thing is . . .’ He paused.
‘Yes?’
‘How do I know if I’m good enough?’ asked Murray. ‘And how do I go about trying to find out what Juanita knows?’
‘If we let you in, you’re good enough,’ Craigie said dryly, ‘and as for the other—well, we’ve some tentative plans ready.’ He stood there very still, spare, upright; and Murray had a strange impression, that he was ageless.
‘Are you in?’ he asked.
‘Please,’ said Murray.
Nearly three-quarters of an hour afterwards, Murray and Miller left the office, and the doors slid to behind them. In that time Murray had been briefed about Department Z as thoroughly as he could be, at short notice; he knew everything that was essential, now, to help him with Juanita Lang. He found himself wondering what the others really felt about him, and he was still powerfully affected by the influence of Gordon Craigie, the head of the Department of Doomed Men.
‘Well,’ Loftus said, deep in his throat, ‘what do you make of him?’
Craigie was leaning back with his eyes closed.
‘What do you?’
‘Plenty, ‘ said Loftus, and chuckled, still very deep in his throat. ‘I’ve seldom met anyone cooler, calmer, or better equipped.’
‘I think I agree,’ said Craigie. ‘Fully satisfied?’
‘Aren’t you?’
Craigie said slowly: ‘I prefer to study a man for weeks, if not months, and we’ve only had a few hours, but I can’t see any way we’ve gone wrong here. I’d say he’s completely reliable, and that he won’t let anything frighten him into doing the wrong thing.’ Craigie sat down at his desk, and took out another small book. ‘In any case, we haven’t much choice. If they get really busy on Canna . . .’
‘Just how bad is it?’ Loftus asked. ‘Officially.’
‘We’ve been told time and time again that the loss of this territory or that base will be disastrous, and it hasn’t led to disaster yet,’ Craigie said quietly. ‘I know. It began with India, I suppose, and it’s gone along through the years, with Egypt and Cyprus as bad as any. But this time—well, you know I was with the Old Man this morning.’
‘Yes.’
‘He told me that the Service chiefs are really alarmed, that the Colonial Office reports that if we lose our grip on Canna we can say good-bye to effective control of most of the African colonies and territories.’ Craigie was brusque now. ‘There have been urgent representations from Washington: don’t let Canna go. We know that in Moscow they would put on a spe
cial Ballet de Triomphe if Canna became an open territory, or a so-called neutral. The simple fact is that unless we can produce Meya Kamil and convince the islanders that we’re not going to replace him . . .’
‘Out we go,’ said Loftus bleakly.
‘That, or we hold the island by military force, and that would be almost as bad—it might help militarily, it would damn us politically in African and Asian eyes. And . . .
Craigie broke off, as a pale blue light showed on a telephone. He shot a meaning glance at Loftus as he lifted it, for this was the direct line from Number 10. There was only the faintest of ringing sounds; the system here was mostly based on a series of lights.
He said: ‘Yes, Prime Minister?’
He listened.
He said: ‘I think we’re making some progress, and you can be absolutely sure that we’re doing everything we can. . . . Yes, we’ve found the girl and she’s not seriously hurt, but we haven’t been able to question her closely yet. . . . Yes, the moment we have any news at all I’ll call you, or Loftus will . . . Yes, Prime Minister.’
He paused for a moment, then said: ‘Good-bye,’ and rang off. He was pale and old-looking when he spoke to Loftus.
‘The Canna university students marched to Government House in Canna this morning,’ he said. ‘They asked for Meya Kamil, and when they couldn’t see him, they started a riot. Some were armed with hand grenades. Three policemen were killed, and nine wounded. Two regiments of the Guards are on their way to the island now, by air, to try to make sure that there isn’t a general rising, but . . .
Craigie broke off.
Loftus said slowly, grimly: ‘If you ask me, we haven’t a chance; we didn’t get on to it soon enough. What do we expect to get through Murray or the girl? Miracles?’
11. 5 Dineley Street
Murray heard the door slide to behind him, and glanced at Miller, to see if that affected the policeman at all. Miller took it matter-of-factly, as if he had closed the door with a handle in the usual way. Murray found himself wondering how a man who seemed to have so little imagination could make the progress that Miller had, for he was the senior Superintendent of the Special Branch, C.I.D. Perhaps he had got where he was because he had little or no imagination.