by Ted Allbeury
The girls at the school had been scared of him. He was a bully. Most boys were scared of him too, and whenever he was involved in a fight it always went far beyond the usual schoolboy horse-play. He hurt people when he could. He in his turn was hated. Not only for his cruelty but also because he was always the cleverest boy in his class. He had won a scholarship to George Heriot’s School in Edinburgh, and had won a university place with only minimum effort.
Twice he had gone on mad spending sprees in Edinburgh, pledging his father’s credit. The money had gone on clothes and girls. Girls found him strangely attractive until he got them into bed. Once was always enough. In some cases too much.
He had achieved a double-first in French and German and when a perceptive senior member of the faculty had introduced him to one of their former honours graduates who had suggested a career in the Foreign Office, he had accepted the offer immediately.
There had been several internal FO selection boards. The first had indicated some doubts about his suitability for the diplomatic service and he had been posted to SIS. After two years he had been moved to one side, out of the mainstream of SIS’s operation. It was then he had started work for Nick Carter.
He had mixed feelings about Carter. Almost like the feelings he had for his father. He respected him for his experience and courage, but there were times when he went out of his way to antagonize Carter. And when he was taken to task those pale blue eyes looked at him as if they knew his innermost secrets. Knew the pleasure he got when his fist thudded into flesh until it met bone. And the pleasure that was almost ecstasy that he felt at the fear in a victim’s eyes. He didn’t want Carter to know those things. He wanted Carter to admire him, and he wasn’t sure whether Carter approved or disapproved his private zest for violence. He wasn’t even certain that Carter had noticed it.
Arnold Fergus Sturgiss could have been the monozygotic twin of Maclaren except for his physical appearance. And his background.
Sturgiss was only a couple or so inches over five foot. Born and raised in Govan, within sight and sound of the football crowds in Ibrox Park, in one of the tenement blocks off Shieldhall Road, he was typical of his roots. Social workers who came with their various sociology degrees and a wild enthusiasm to put the world to rights were sent early on to the Govan tenements. It brought them back to earth in a matter of weeks. The very conscientious and loving were driven to nervous breakdowns, and the more politically inclined would experience their first doubts as to whether Marxism could actually work if human beings had to be involved.
His father had died in a foundry accident in Possil when the boy was nine, and his mother had done her best for the boy until her basically frail body had succumbed to the long hours of grinding work that had earned her just enough to keep their heads above water. When there was only her minute widow’s pension and Social Security benefits to live on she had eventually given up the struggle. She took to her bed, and at eleven years old the boy became their only bread-winner. Devoted to his mother he treated the rest of the world as his enemies. He fought, stole and bullied for food and cash. Working for money was too time-consuming and ill-rewarded. Just once he had taken money for having sex with a man from Bearsden and when the agony was over he had left the man unconscious. He had taken his wallet, cheque-book, and even his clothes.
At school he was admired for his courage by both teachers and pupils but he was no scholar. His mind was never on his books, and teachers gave up expecting homework from him. They knew his circumstances and knew that so far as school was concerned he was doomed.
A friendly neighbour had got him a labourer’s job at the foundry where his father had worked, and died. He was fifteen then, and his mother was bedridden. Pressed by the doctor to go into the isolation hospital to see if they couldn’t cure her TB she had adamantly and tearfully refused. She died a couple of months before his eighteenth birthday.
He sold their few sticks of furniture, and with twelve pounds in his Post Office Savings book he joined the army. Everything about him suited the army. His aggression, his guts, and his liking for every aspect of the military life. A sergeant by the time he was twenty he saw the notice on the company board for volunteers for a Field Security parachute unit and he applied.
After the parachute course he was sent down to the Intelligence Corps depot in Kent where he completed the course in three months. His first posting was to Hong Kong, and after that, Berlin and Hamburg. It was the SIS detachment in Hamburg who noticed him, and after some routine checking on his background he was transferred to their establishment. He made no protest when he was given the more violent subjects to handle when the interrogators were in a hurry for information. There were odd occasions when they left some minor interrogation to Sturgiss and were surprised that just being street-smart was sometimes more effective than the usual grinding down by multiple interrogations. Despite the fact that he was an established field-agent for SIS he wasn’t really part of the group. Nothing had ever been said, but when they invited him to one of their parties or picnics they obviously didn’t expect him to accept. They admired him for his guts, but they were embarrassed by his lack of even the elementary social graces. He was neither hurt nor angered by their attitude. The world was still his enemy. And they were part of it.
When Carter interviewed him he was 26, and for the first time in his life another human being made him feel wanted. Carter was big and tough, and he talked with Sturgiss about his background and SIS experience for a whole weekend. Carter was looking for another man for his small group who carried out SIS’s borderline assignments. The borderline between mere illegality, which they were well used to, and outrage.
Sturgiss had heard nothing after the weekend for almost three months, and then he had been told to make his way to an address just outside Stratford on Avon. A house set in its own grounds. The house had once been a parsonage, but its windows were now double-glazed and barred. The double-glazing was not to keep noise out but to keep it in. That house, Carter and the other four men, were the nearest thing Sturgiss had ever had to a home and family.
Sturgiss’s team-mate had been Maclaren right from the first days. They were not friends but they worked together well enough, both indifferent to the other’s approval or disapproval.
11
Symons sat in the army dentist’s waiting-room with the men and NCOs who were there for treatment. The privates had all gravitated to the bench against the far wall leaving the bentwood chairs for the five NCOs. There was very little talking, certainly not enough to help him decide, but there was one who looked a possible. A corporal. Fair-haired and fresh-faced, his nose and forehead sprinkled with freckles so that he looked even younger than he was.
In the small office next to the surgery Symons looked through the cards. The corporal was in his last year of service. Twenty-four, physically fit, in charge of the stores on an infantry base in Yorkshire. He had an abscess on the root of one of his front teeth. There was an X-ray clipped to his record card and he’d been given a full term of antibiotic. Allergic to penicillin, he had been prescribed erythromycin and he was now coming back for the clearing-up operations. He turned to Maclaren. “This one might be suitable, but I’ll need to speak to the dentist.”
Maclaren reached for the record card and read it, his lips moving silently as they formed the words he was reading. He handed it back without comment, and opened the door to the surgery and nodded to the young captain who came over to the door.
“My colleague wants to talk to you, captain.”
The captain looked at Symons, his eyebrows raised in question.
“What is it you want?”
Symons handed over the card. “What do you have to do to him today?”
The dentist read the card and then looked up at Symons. “I’ll have to take another X-ray to check that the infection is cleared up. It almost certainly will be. Then I have to cut a flap in the gum, clean out the cavity and sterilize it. Then I stitch up the flap.”
“Local. It’ll have to be four or five big shots because it will take quite a time.”
“Will he be conscious all the time?”
“Yes. But he’ll feel no pain until after the effect of the anaesthetic wears off. He’ll be drowsy and I’ll give him pain-killers. I have to pull up his lip so there will be quite extensive local pain including the lip and the nose.”
“Could I try an experiment for the post-operative pain?”
“What kind of experiment?”
“Hypnosis instead of pain-killer.”
“I’d have to ask the DDMS at Corps before I could do that. But it sounds interesting.”
Maclaren said, “Leave him to last and I’ll get the permission from Corps before you start.”
“What’s all this in aid of ? Are you two doctors?”
Symons said, “I am. I’m a psychiatrist in the Canadian army.”
The captain smiled. “Pleased to meet you. We’ve had lots of discussions about whether hypnosis is effective for dental operations that take a long time to perform or where the post-operative pain is abnormally high. I’d be interested in the results.”
Maclaren cut in. “I’ll get Corps to phone you in the surgery, and when you’ve finished with the corporal I’d like you to send him across to Hut Seven. We’ll wait for him there. We’ll send a report on him through Corps HQ.”
“I’ll be very interested. I really will.” He looked at Symons. “It really does work, does it?”
Symons nodded. “It has so far.”
Symons was on his own in the small room in Hut Seven. It was normally used as a living room for senior officers recuperating from serious operations. The furniture was modern and comfortable and there were rows of books, a colour TV and hi-fi equipment. He looked at the soldier.
“It’s Corporal Walker isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The treatment all done?”
“Got to come back next week to have the stitches out.”
Symons smiled. “It’s not easy to talk is it?”
“It’s my lip. Feels all swollen and numb.”
“Sit down, corporal.” Symons pointed to the low chair and Walker sat down carefully.
“Tell me what the dentist did?”
“It was an abscess on my jaw.” He pointed to the front of his mouth.
“Just relax. Put your head back and tell me what it feels like. Close your eyes and that will help.”
“He just drilled a lot.”
“Do you feel drowsy?”
“I do a bit.”
“Close your eyes. That’s right. Now relax. I’m going to relax you even more. I’m going to count to ten and then you’ll be deeply relaxed. One, two … nice and easy … three, four, five … deeper and deeper … six, seven, eight … nice deep breaths … nine, ten … that’s it. Now you’re asleep. Can you hear me, George?”
Walker nodded.
“Your name’s George Walker, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Have you got a steady girl-friend?”
“No.”
“Tell me about your parents.”
“My dad works on the railway. Mom’s just a housewife.”
“You live with them when you’re not in the army?”
“Yes.”
“Where do you live?”
“Chester Road, Stockport.”
“When you leave here you won’t feel any pain where your abscess was. No pain at all in your mouth. No pain at all.” Symons paused. “Do you read books at all?”
“Yes. Quite a lot.”
“Who’s your favourite author?”
“Dickens.”
“Would you like to be able to write like Dickens?”
“Yes.”
“I tell you what. When we talk together like this your name will be Dickens. You’ll really be Mr. Dickens. How about that?”
“OK.”
“And whenever I call you Dickens you’ll do whatever I say. OK?”
“Yes.”
“I’m going to bring you back now. When I count from ten to one you’ll be wide awake. You won’t remember anything we’ve talked about but you’ll take a book from the bookshelf when I say the word ‘careful’ and you’ll give the book to me. Understood?”
“Yes.”
“Right. Ten, nine … you’re coming awake … eight, seven, six … that’s fine … you’re feeling great … five, four, three … your eyes are opening … two, one. You’re feeling good … How do you feel, corporal?”
“I feel fine.”
“What were we talking about?”
“My tooth.”
“It will be tender. So be careful what you eat. No toast or hard things.”
Walker nodded, stood up, walked over to the bookshelf, removed a book and walked back with it, handing it to Symons.
“You’ll need something to read I expect.”
“Thanks. How about you call in and see me tomorrow at about noon? I’ll fix it with your CSM.”
“OK.”
When Walker had left Symons looked at the title of the book as he slid it back into place on the shelf. It was Brideshead Revisited. There were daily sessions with Walker until Symons was satisfied that he was fully under control and the memory block solidly established. And after three weeks Maclaren, Sturgiss and Symons took him down to the static caravan on the perimeter of the SAS camp in Hereford.
It took only ten days to get Walker down to the next level. At that level he was an SAS sergeant and they gave him short courses on the firing range and a few hours’ practice on the assault courses. Sturgiss was responsible for the training and it was done when the camp was between intakes and there was only a skeleton staff for routine cooking and cleaning. Symons and Maclaren watched the last two days’ training. He didn’t have to be anywhere near the real SAS level. It would all be close-up work and mainly in a confined space.
Symons took readings of Walker’s body and brain functions in his role of Dickens and as Sergeant Madden of SAS, and he made detailed notes of his extensive chats with Walker in his two hypnotic states. Six weeks from the first interview in Hut Seven Walker was ready for Maclaren and Sturgiss to use.
It was a new model Merc and Maclaren drove it with professional skill, taking no risks but using the power of its engine and the ratios of its gearbox to keep them moving fast. He deliberately avoided the direct motorway route under the Elbe, preferring the old route that took them through Wilhelmsburg. There was a hold-up when they approached the bridge over the Lower Elbe where an articulated lorry had jack-knifed half-across the centre verge, but they were on the Hamburg city boundary between Harburg and Ehestorf before seven.
Walker sat with Sturgiss in the back seat and Symons was in front with Maclaren. Walker was already in level one hypnosis and when they spoke to him they addressed him as Mr. Dickens. He had been Dickens from the fourth session in Hut Seven, and Symons was concerned at the long state of hypnosis that the SIS operation required. He consoled himself that in a few more days he could bring Walker back to his normal state for a week or two until the next operation.
The grey Merc pulled into the driveway that was signposted “Bauernhof Leidermann” and headed up the roadway to the house. Despite calling itself a farm it wasn’t a farm, and had never been a farm. Until it had been bought through several intermediaries by SIS it had been a small-holding that supplied fruit and fresh vegetables for many of the top Hamburg hotels. But a year’s neglect had left an acre of waist-high weeds and four good-sized glasshouses with bindweed and Creeping Jenny where tomatoes and early lettuce had once provided a handsome profit. Maclaren and Sturgiss were both wearing British army battle-dress with Grenadier Guards flashes.
They ate together and then Symons walked with Walker and the two SIS men to the brick building that had once housed the boilers for the glasshouses. It was divided into two now by a breeze block wall with a metal door at the right-han
d side. In the middle of the room was a small wooden table. Plain and solidly built it was bolted to the concrete floor with angle-iron clamps. There were three heavy wooden chairs, two of which were also clamped to the floor. And a man in a roll-neck sweater and khaki slacks stood swinging a bunch of heavy keys from his hand.
Maclaren nodded to the man who turned and unlocked the metal door, beckoning them inside. Two men stumbled out from the darkness inside the back room screwing up their eyes against the not very bright light over the table. Sturgiss pointed silently to the two chairs and the men sat down clumsily. They were both wearing crumpled battle-dress, the jackets unbuttoned and the khaki shirts torn and stained.
Symons stood in the corner alone, leaning back against the wall, his eyes on the two soldiers.
Maclaren was wearing a captain’s three pips and Sturgiss the single pip of a second-lieutenant. Maclaren stood in front of the two men.
“Are you ready to talk now?”
Neither man responded. Maclaren addressed the man on the left. Ginger-haired, sweaty-faced and about twenty years old.
“I’ll start with you again, Fox. How did you pay her?”
The man named Fox shook his head, and Sturgiss moved silently to stand behind him.
“I’ll ask you again. How did you pay her?”
Almost before the man could have responded Sturgiss’s hand had grasped his hair and wrenched his head back until the man was gasping, reaching up in vain to free his hair from Sturgiss’s grasp. Sturgiss smiled and pulled the head back to what seemed an impossible angle and the man gave a strangled cry.