Pay Any Price

by Ted Allbeury

  “Police. Can I help you?”

  “A cat was run over near my cottage. When I was burying it I noticed it had some kind of device in its head.”

  There was a pause at the police end.

  “What d’you mean, a device? What kind of device?”

  “I don’t know. It looks like something scientific.”

  “Can I have your name and address, sir?”

  “My name’s Phillip Cruickshank and my address is Lindens, Sandy Lane, Petchford.”

  “Somebody’ll come out, sir.”

  “How long will they be?”

  “Not long, sir. Five or ten minutes.”

  The man in the white jacket sat alongside the table, his glasses pushed up on to his forehead.

  “There’s nothing more I can say, Tony, unless I cut the damn thing up.”

  “There’s no indication of what it does?”

  “Not a sausage. I assume that it’s from some animal research laboratory. The components are obviously highly miniaturized electronics but I’ve never seen anything like them before. Even the plastic covering isn’t any material I’ve come across before.” The man looked at his colleague. “There’s only one sensible thing you can do, Tony.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Send it to Special Branch. Either that or just send it to Victoria Street and let the Yard forensic people sort it out.”

  “Why Special Branch?”

  “Because there are two devices inside, and my guess is that one of them must be a radio. That’s what the filament is for. It’s probably an aerial of some kind.”

  It was handed over to the senior Special Branch officer at Newcastle who was ordered to take it personally to New Scotland Yard.

  The device was photographed from every angle, with black and white, infrared and colour film, and finally, before it was opened, a technician produced a hologram for reference. The cutting open of the device was filmed, and it took almost two hours to remove the outer sheath without damaging the components.

  Despite two months of careful examination it was not possible to determine the function of the device. Photographs were circulated to the Royal College of Surgeons, the Royal College of Veterinary Surgeons, commercial and government laboratories and two or three university physics research laboratories. No components were identified, and suggestions about the device’s function were no more than speculation. The material of the outer sheath was identified, by spectography, as a derivative of an inert material manufactured by a Swiss drug company for use where capsules taken by mouth in research experiments needed to be recovered. A four-line summary was passed to Regional Special Branch offices, MI6, the CIA in Washington, the BfV in Bonn and the SDECE in Paris. The summaries were acknowledged but there was no additional information in response. Only the CIA asked to be put on the circulation list for any subsequent information.

  The three of them, the girl, Symons and Maclaren flew in to Ireland on a TWA flight from Prestwick to New York via Shannon. Symons, with a US passport, hired a car from Ryan’s and they were in Dublin in mid-afternoon. They booked in separately at the Hibernian.

  Maclaren had taken a suite and that evening they ate together. After the waiter had cleared away Maclaren went into his bedroom and left Symons alone with the girl. He lifted the slim leather briefcase on to his lap and took out a fat, brown envelope, placing it carefully by his chair as he snapped closed the briefcase and moved it off the table.

  Symons turned to face the girl, his eyes on hers. “How do you feel, Nancy?”

  “I’m ready for bed. It was a lovely meal.”

  “Why don’t you close your eyes for a few minutes?”

  She laughed. “I’d just go to sleep.”

  “I’ll wake you up. Just rest your eyes … that’s it. When I count to ten you’ll be asleep but you’ll still hear me. One, two … three, four … good … five … six … seven … deeper and deeper … eight, nine … ten.” He paused for a few seconds and said softly, “Can you hear me?”

  The girl nodded and Symons said, “Eight, nine, zero. And now you’re Lara. Beautiful Lara. And you hate what they’re doing to the man you love. The house in the snow and then the Spring and the daffodils. Do you remember?”

  “I can hear the tune. The lovely tune, and the bells on the horses’ harness when we had to go away and leave him …” She sighed softly.

  “Look at these photographs, Lara. Look at this man. He’s your enemy. And your husband’s enemy. He’s the man who will split you all up. This is where he lives. In this house. Remember this house. Tomorrow you’ll go to that house and ask to see him. You’ll give him this letter and tell him to read it right away. And as soon as he opens it you’ll shoot him with this gun. In his face and his chest. You know how to shoot. You’ll fire twice and then run down the path to the car. This man will be in the car. His name is Ames. He’ll bring you to me and you will have saved us all.”

  The long row of Victorian terraced houses looked grim despite the sunshine. As the car pulled up at the corner of the road Symons got out of the car with the girl and as they walked together he said, “Lara, you know what to do?” The girl nodded and Symons walked back down the street, ignoring the parked car.

  There was a dusty privet hedge in the small front garden, marking the boundary with its neighbour, and a cement path led up to the door. She knocked on the door and stood back as she had been told to do. So that they could see that it was only a girl.

  The man who opened the door was holding a half-eaten bacon sandwich in his hand. Dark-haired and red-faced he seemed younger than he had looked in the photographs.

  “Mr. Rafferty?”

  “That’s me.”

  “I was told to give you this letter. They want me to take back an answer.”

  The man put the last of the sandwich in his mouth, wiped his hands on his shirt and started to tear open the envelope. The first shot took him full in the face, jerking back his head. His hands were reaching out for the support of the wall when the second shot, in his chest, knocked him off his feet.

  The door of the car was already open and the engine running, and Maclaren pulled the girl inside as he let in the clutch. They left the car outside St. Saviour’s Church and walked a hundred yards down the road to where Symons was waiting for them in the hire car. Maclaren took the wheel and Symons scrambled in the back with the girl. He turned to her quickly.

  “Close your eyes, Lara … I’ll count from one to ten and you’ll feel real good. One, two … coming up … three, four … five … waking slowly … six, seven, eight … deep breaths … nine … ten. Can you hear me?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. Maclaren reached over with one arm and took her handbag as he watched the road ahead. Driving with one hand he removed the gun and passed the bag back to Symons.

  “You’re nice and relaxed … you don’t remember anything about today or yesterday evening … you’re Nancy Rawlins … and you’re on holiday. D’you understand?”

  “Yes. I like being on holiday.”

  “Tell me your name.”

  “I’m Nancy Rawlins and I’m on holiday.”

  “Good girl. Now I’ll wake you up again.”

  16

  Percy House could only be reached by the rough dirt road from the metalled road that eventually wound its way half-way up the Cheviot Hills. From the bedroom windows you could see the deserted beach and the sea where it foamed and crashed against the strange outcrop of granite rocks that jutted out from the shore for almost two hundred yards. Local historians sometimes claimed that the outcrop was man-made, a sighting line from the big house to Holy Island. Geologists dismissed the theory as totally unfounded, but the annual debate on the subject at Alnwick Local History Society was always the liveliest night in their winter programme.

  Symons and Petersen sat in one of the workrooms watching the screen. They were both in casual clothes. Blue denim shirts and trousers, their feet in solid walking shoes. As the black and white film flicke
red to an end on the screen and the tail of the film came free from the sprocket Symons switched off the projector and used a torch to walk over to the main light switch.

  He made his way back to the armchair, sat down and leaned back looking at Petersen.

  “D’you trust them, Pete?”

  “You mean all of them?”

  “Yep.”

  Petersen yawned and stretched his arms and legs.

  “They’re too deeply involved to try any fancy games.”

  “I don’t know. I wouldn’t trust that bastard Maclaren.”

  “Why him particularly?”

  “He’s always probing around. Have I had any practical experience that it works at different levels? How did the CIA pay me? Always back in the past. Away from what we’re doing now.”

  “They’re scared that it could leak that we’re doing it for them.”

  “Let’s have another look at the film.”

  When the lights were out and the focus readjusted on the projector they both sat watching the screen.

  The camera angle was low and the lens slowly followed the white lines on what looked like a parquet floor. The lines were straight, branching off at right angles, left and right, in a convoluted pattern that eventually led back to the starting point. When the cat came into the frame it was barely discernible at first. It followed the lines, sometimes sitting at some random point on the line then moving on. Eventually it returned to the starting point. At that point the film stock changed to black and white and there was the hum of a sound-track as code numbers changed on the screen.

  As the next sequence came up the cat was walking slowly across a flower border towards a small brick-built cottage. Along the front of the cottage was a narrow border of herbaceous flowers with frost-burned leaves and dry, faded blooms on woody stalks. At the door of the cottage the cat hesitated, looked up at a slightly open window and jumped easily up to the wooden sill. For a moment the lens zoomed in on to the cat, so that the film was momentarily over exposed. The camera cut to the interior of a room. Two men sat talking and the sound-track changed so that the men’s words were audible but the speech degraded with an uneven pulse and a regular variation in volume. One of the men talking reached out his hand to the cat, which sniffed it tentatively and then jumped up on to his lap. From then until the film ran out both men’s speech was clear and only slightly degraded by intermittent static.

  As the film slapped free of the sprockets it flapped round on the spool until Symons reached over and switched off the projector. He said softly, “I wonder what the hell happened to that bloody cat.”

  When their guests had left, Boyd and Katie had one last drink before going to bed and as they sat relaxed on the settee she said, “Why were you so cross with Tom Frazer?”

  “He’s a bit of a creep when he’s had a couple of whiskies.”

  “How did he know that you work for MI6?”

  “He works at the Ministry that supplies government departments with furniture and carpets and that sort of stuff. When we moved from Queen Anne’s Gate he saw me at Century House when they were making an inventory. He wasn’t sure that I worked there. He was just fishing.”

  “You were rather nasty with him, darling.”

  “I ignored him twice, my love. He should have taken the hint, not gone on.”

  “But I think a lot of people would like to know what the difference is between MI5 and MI6.”

  “Well they must carry on wanting, so far as I’m concerned.”

  She smiled at him. “Would you tell me?”

  “Oh, honey. You’re not really interested, are you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m just curious. It’s interesting.”

  “It’s not really interesting. But anyway … MI5 is responsible for this country’s security. They keep tabs on foreign intelligence agents, subversives … that sort of stuff. They don’t arrest people themselves. Special Branch, which is part of the normal police force under the Commissioner, do all the actual arrests.

  “MI6 are responsible for getting intelligence from other countries.” He shrugged. “That’s all it is. But even that’s not for publication.”

  She laughed. “But the Russians must know all about it already.”

  “Maybe.”

  “So why can’t we know? The public.”

  “Why should we confirm anything for the other side?”

  “It might stop people criticizing what you do.”

  “The ones who criticize don’t know what we do. And if they do know and still criticize it’s generally because they’ve got some ulterior motive.”

  “You mean they’re on the other side?”

  “Most of them.”

  “But some MPs criticize.”

  “So?”

  “You mean that those MPs are working for the Russians?”

  “Not all of them. Some just want to bring the country to a state of anarchy and revolution. So that they can take over.”

  “And it’s your job to find out who they are and stop them?”

  “No that’s Five’s job. My lot find out what we want to know about other governments and their intelligence services.”

  “I can’t imagine you doing that, somehow.”

  He leaned over and kissed her gently. “OK, Mata Hari, here endeth the first lesson. And the last one too.”

  Slowly she pulled back her head and her green eyes looked at his face. “We could live quite well off my paintings.”

  He smiled. “I’d rather like being a kept man, sweetie.”

  “I mean it, Jimmy.”

  “Why should we?”

  She said softly, “Have you ever killed anybody?”

  “No comment.” He yawned, but it wasn’t very convincing. “It’s time for bed, love. I’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

  “I’m being silly, James. Aren’t I?”

  “No. You’re being kind and caring and I think about you and those virtues very often when I’m away.”

  “Honestly?”

  “Honestly. Come on, it’s past midnight.”

  Debbie Shaw was walking through Berwick Market towards Wardour Street and she had to stop. It was like a series of slides in her mind. The big white house on the side of the hill and the hot sunshine. And the man with her in the car, kissing her, trying to get his hand up her skirt, and the car turning into the big gates of the white house. Then a passer-by was asking her if she was all right and the last slide just faded away and she was back in Berwick Market by the second-hand bookstall.

  It had happened twice before. Once when she was getting into bed and the second time in a cinema. The first time only lasted for a few seconds and the street signs and shop signs were all in Chinese. Then the cabin on the boat. The beautiful white panels all splashed with blood and the two Americans looking at the man lying on the table. And the sign at the airport said Kai Tak and she found out later that that means Hong Kong.

  The second time, in the cinema, had been bad. She had handed over the envelope as soon as she got to the house and when they read it they were angry. The two men had held her and the woman had burned the backs of her hands with a lighted cigarette. They kept asking questions in terrible English and she couldn’t understand what they were saying. The next day they had untied her, all smiles. They said there had been a mistake. A doctor had come to treat the big yellow blisters on her hands and she had refused to let him near her, screaming and fighting until he left her alone. She had asked them what language they were speaking and they smiled and said their language was Farsi. She had never heard of such a language.

  Ansell was annoyed at the cool reception his report had received from the military. He had wrestled with his conscience before sending it, and had rationalized his decision as being inevitable because if he raised the issue with his patient, Walker would probably be in a position to claim some sort of disability pension from the War Office. He was merely anticipating the authorities being inform
ed. When he had the call from Boyd he was relieved that his report had not been completely ignored, and he agreed to see him unofficially, off the record, and away from the hospital. He suggested they meet at his home in Wilmslow.

  Ansell noticed the official file that Boyd took out of his briefcase.

  “I thought the soldiers were taking their normal stance towards psychiatrists as one step worse than witchdoctors.”

  Boyd smiled. “The army employs at least a couple of hundred psychiatrists itself. Most of them field-rank or above. We’re not quite the Philistines the media make us out to be. Not that we mind too much what outsiders think.”

  “That puts me in my place.”

  “I didn’t mean that, doctor. And we’re quite genuinely grateful that you decided to notify us.”

  “How much have they told you?”

  “I’ve read your report and I’ve read the report by the Military Police. They weren’t able to trace any officers of those names operating in Germany from 1945 onwards. That’s about all I know.”

  “There’s one thing I know now that I didn’t know when I contacted the army. My patient has definitely been hypnotized before. He says he hasn’t, and that probably means that he’s been hypnotized surreptitiously.”

  “Is that possible? I thought you could only be hypnotized if you wanted to be and you co-operated.”

  “That used to be the thinking, but it isn’t so. And the old theory that nobody under hypnosis could be made to do something that he or she found repugnant when they were conscious has also gone by the board.”

  “Would it be possible for you to ask him questions for me?”

  “Depends what they are but there’s no practical problem.”

  “Could I be there to hear his answers?”

  Ansell shook his head. “No. I’m afraid not.”

  “Not even if he agreed?”

  “Ah well. That’s different, but I couldn’t agree to any deception. He’d have to know who you are.”