Pay Any Price

by Ted Allbeury

  He was lonely because he missed her, but he was depressed because it made him realize how vulnerable and unprotected she was. No parents, no family, not even a distant relative. He was all she had. But he had no standing in law. He was just a friend. He could enquire, but he couldn’t demand to be told. He wasn’t a husband. And it brought home to him that he was exactly the same. One cousin, God knows how many times removed. Last heard of in Belfast when he was a child. It had never got him down before. His life was too full and too interesting to give it a thought. But he was giving it a lot of thought now.

  He spent his mornings at her agency. Helping where he could to keep things going smoothly. In the afternoon he slept or visited the hospital. At night he had the theatre, and on very bad days he brought home a bottle of whisky. He had moved into the girl’s flat because it was a small consolation to be surrounded by her things.

  It was one of the bad nights that he dialled the Washington number. It rang only twice before the receiver was picked up.

  “CIA Langley, can I help you?”

  For a moment he was so shocked that he couldn’t speak, and the voice at the other end said again, “CIA Langley. Can I help you?”

  “I want to speak to Joe Spellman.”

  “Who? … ah yes. One moment please.”

  There were some clicks and a long pause and then a man’s voice.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I want to speak to Joe Spellman.”

  There was a pause and then the phone was hung up. He dialled the number again. It rang for almost a minute before a voice cut in. “International operator, White Plains, can I help you?”

  “I want Washington 547–9077.”

  “Have you dialled the number?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what happened?”

  “Someone answered but I was cut off.”

  “Hold the line. I’ll try again for you.”

  There was about thirty seconds pause and the girl came back again.

  “Would you repeat the number please.”

  “Washington 547–9077.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I’ve checked. There’s no such number listed. Do you know the name of the party you’re calling?”

  “Yes. CIA at Langley.”

  “Let me check for you.”

  She was back quite quickly. “That number’s not listed for CIA Langley or their office in downtown Washington. I can give you their general enquiries number at Langley if that would help.”

  “No thanks. Thank you for trying.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Randall put down the phone. He didn’t sleep that night.

  It was on Boyd’s fourth day back that he got the call from Ansell. The doctor didn’t want to talk on the phone and suggested that he should fly up to Manchester as soon as possible.

  Ansell seemed very nervous when they met in the foyer of The Midland. Not like psychiatrists are supposed to look; and as they walked into the residents’ lounge Boyd, without thinking, put his hand on Ansell’s shoulder. “Let me get you a drink.”

  The doctor shook his head. “I’d rather get rid of my little pack of trouble first.”

  They sat in the furthest corner in the big leather armchairs and Ansell leaned forward as he started to speak.

  “The good bit first. I’ve found out roughly where this bloody house is supposed to be. It’s not Hamburg. It’s just outside Hamburg. A place called Harburg. The house is at the edge of a wood and it’s been taken over by the army. You can hear the full description on the tapes. I’d say it’s enough for you to trace it.”

  “What’s the bad news?”

  “In the first level of hypnosis he calls himself Dickens. He’s told me quite a lot about Dickens. Dickens is a hoodlum. A heavy for a gang of villains somewhere in London. I think it’s in Shepherd’s Bush or near there. But while I was trying to get down to the second level I tried a whole series of words to do with Dickens characters that might be the code into the second level. None of them worked but for a few moments he changed completely and he was talking about being a sergeant in Special Air Services. He was on a firing range somewhere very hot. Sounded more like Africa than England. It sounded to me like there might be even a third level of hypnosis. And this worries me stiff. It’s the equivalent of digging around with a scalpel in somebody’s brain with a Dunlop touring map for a guide. This chap is in a real mess.”

  “Does that mean you have to stop?”

  “I was considering it, so I phoned around a few research institutes where I know people personally. To see what they knew about multi-level hypnosis. I tried four different places. Three said it was theoretically possible but had never been done. Or they had never heard of it being done. The other one had not only heard about it but had a case of two-level hypnosis right now. I asked them to read me some typical extracts from their notes. And what they read me was straight out of a nightmare. I’ll be having nightmares myself before long. The patient was going on about a Captain Ames but this time it was not in Germany but Dublin.”

  “What was the chap’s name? Had he been in the army?”

  “It wasn’t a chap, my friend. It was a woman. Thirty-one years old and runs a theatrical agency. Used to be in showbiz herself. You’ve probably heard of her. Debbie Shaw.”

  “Wasn’t she a dancer or something? Exotic dancer, whatever that is.”

  “She was originally a stripper. Then she was an entertainer. A singer. Was in a touring company that went to the States and various places, putting on shows for American troops.”

  “Why is she in hospital?”

  “From what I can gather she’s got a post-hypnotic leak that’s giving her nightmares.”

  “Explain to me again what a post-hypnotic leak is.”

  “How much do you know about hypnosis?”

  Boyd shrugged. “Virtually nothing.”

  “Well, most people can be hypnotized quite easily. It’s often referred to as being asleep but the subject is never asleep. They can hear the hypnotist and, of course, they can respond. When somebody is under hypnosis they no longer initiate activity. They do what they are told to do. They accept uncritically what they are told. They stroke cats that aren’t there. They can be easily regressed into their childhood. And they can be made to forget what has happened under hypnosis including the fact that they were hypnotized. This is called post-hypnotic amnesia.

  “It’s possible to make a special feature of ensuring that the subject doesn’t remember either the hypnosis or what happened under hypnosis. That’s called a post-hypnotic block. Under certain conditions a second or two of hypnotic experience can seep through. That’s what we call leaking.”

  Boyd nodded. “And what causes the leaking?”

  “Nobody has established that. There’s some indication that severe stress or certain types of illness can cause a leak but it’s not been scientifically established as yet.”

  “What actually happens when they leak?”

  Ansell frowned and paused. “It’s hard to explain. It’s a bit like the clutch on a car slipping. That’s not a bad analogy. Take a man who drives to work every day. Along the same route, day after day. One day he’ll look around and he won’t see where he is. Suddenly he doesn’t recognize what he sees. It’s all grown so familiar that it doesn’t register any more. He’s looked at it every day but he hasn’t seen it. Suddenly he sees it and doesn’t recognize it. When a hypnotic experience leaks it’s a bit like that. For a second or so you’re in the wrong place doing something you know you’ve never done. Then it goes and you’re back to normal.” Ansell smiled. “That’s about the best I can do. I’ve never experienced it.”

  “Is it dangerous, or harmful?”

  “It depends on what you experience. If it was reasonably normal, then it’s maybe disturbing. No more than that. But if the hypnotic experience was horrific then you can have real problems.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  “I don’t know eno
ugh to say, but I should imagine that disorientation could develop, a kind of schizophrenia. And depending on the character of the person concerned, you could end up with violent aggression or a complete retreat from reality. Hiding away from a reality that has become frightening.”

  “Not good.”

  “You’re right, my friend. Not good.”

  Randall got off the bus in Victoria Street and put up his umbrella. It was only a short walk to the big glass building but it was one of those drenching summer cloudbursts that could soak you in seconds.

  He walked through the entrance and was immediately stopped by a policeman.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  “I want to speak to a Special Branch officer.”

  “Just take a seat, sir. I’ll see what we can do.”

  Randall was shown to a seat beside a well-grown monstera deliciosa and he sat there waiting as the police constable phoned from a sound-proofed plastic hood. And the small video camera in the shadows of the foyer ceiling recorded him on tape.

  It was fifteen minutes before a uniformed policewoman escorted him to one of the lifts and up to the fifth floor. There was no name, just a number, on the office door that she opened for him.

  The youngish man at the small teak desk stood up. “Good morning. Would you take a seat?”

  There was only one seat by the desk and when Randall had sat down the young man said, “My name’s Cavendish. I understand you wanted to see a Special Branch officer.”

  “Are you Special Branch?”

  “Yes. Can I have your name first.”

  The SB man noted down the routine details and then closed his notebook.

  “What is it you wanted?”

  “I wanted to report something odd that’s happened.”

  The SB officer sighed inwardly and wondered whether it would be UFOs or the Bermuda Triangle.

  “Please go ahead, Mr. Randall.”

  Steve Randall went through the whole story of Debbie and the previous night’s telephone call.

  “Can you remember the telephone number, Mr. Randall?”

  “Yes. It was Washington 547–9077.”

  “D’you know if Miss Shaw has ever been in the USA?”

  “Yes, she was a singer and entertainer over there.”

  “When was this?”

  “I don’t exactly know. I would guess she came back about eighteen months or two years ago.”

  “Where does she work?”

  “She’s got her own business. A show-biz agency.”

  “What hospital is she in?”

  “Claunton Road Hospital in Tooting.”

  “The name of the doctor?”

  “Salmon. Mr. Salmon.”

  The SB man looked up from his notebook.

  “Thank you for telling us, Mr. Randall.”

  “Will you be looking into it? Checking on it?”

  “I should think that’s possible.”

  “Can you let me know what it’s all about?”

  “I don’t think we could do that. You’re not her next of kin or guardian you see.”

  “But surely … after I’ve told you this.”

  The man got up from his small desk.

  “Let’s wait and see, shall we. The number might have been given her as a hoax or something like that.”

  “But in that case why …”

  “… we’ll look into it carefully, Mr. Randall. Don’t worry.”

  Randall wondered, as he waited for a bus, why people always said, “Don’t worry,” when you obviously were worried, and had good cause to be. He wondered if he had done right in telling them. Or could it make it even worse for Debbie?

  19

  Boyd sat reading the Joint Intelligence summary as he waited for the computer to print out the details he had asked for. There was always a section at the end with odds and ends of information from various sources that were not connected with any particular operation or related to a specific intelligence area. He read it half-heartedly until the bottom of the second page.

  ITEM 43. PRAGUE. Apartment No. 17 at 27 Letenska has been positively identified as being occupied by Major KRETSKI KGB. OC communications Moscow-Prague. It is also occupied by his mistress Maria HASAK. See JICS 451/Item 19.

  ITEM 44. Information requested by CIA regarding present whereabouts of James PARKINSON. a.k.a. Johnny PALMER. Ex-employee of AIR INDIA in their Paris office.

  ITEM 45. Information requested from Hamburg office of BfV regarding signals traffic in code on 15,322 MHz. Tuesdays and Thursdays 21.04 hours from area English Channel believed Isle of Wight. Through liaison Bonn only.

  ITEM 46. Information requested on British subject Deborah SHAW. Informant claims she was given special CIA telephone number whilst under hypnosis. Information to SB direct at NSY.

  Boyd reached for the telephone and dialled SB liaison.

  Boyd called in at Century House on the way home and phoned Ansell in Manchester. Ansell had left the hospital and was on his way home. Ten minutes later Boyd tried the Wilmslow number.

  “Ansell here.”

  “This is Boyd. Did you get any more information on the girl?”

  “Yes. She’s held under the Mental Health Act 1959 Section 72. That means that she’s no longer a voluntary patient. They can keep her in there as long as they want. And nobody, parents, husband, can get her out. Only the Home Secretary himself could get her released.”

  “How do they do that?”

  “Two doctors certify that she is mentally ill and needs to be held in a mental institution for her own safety and the safety of the general public.”

  “You mean two doctors can just put somebody in a mental hospital and nobody can appeal?”

  “Nobody can appeal. But in the first place somebody would have to make the application for her to be detained.”

  “And who could do that?”

  “If she was an offender, a magistrates’ court or another court could issue an order. Or some other official or official body could apply.”

  “Is there any indication of who applied in this case?”

  “Yes. The application was made by the Home Secretary’s Office.”

  “What’s it got to do with him?”

  “That’s just the official channels. The Home Office could offer a dozen reasons that would be accepted. There’s something wrong with all this you know, Jimmy. It stinks.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of you and your people. The establishment. A cover-up. Something sinister.”

  “It’s not me or my people, I assure you. I desperately want to talk to her and the hospital have point blank refused to let me talk to her or even see her.”

  “That’s all very well, but this girl went in there as a voluntary patient. No Section 72. No nothing. She could walk out any time she wanted. I hear about her. They’re going to send me all the medical notes. And I tell you, my friend. And two days later I get the notes. And the next day—the very next day—she’s a Section 72 patient. It’s too much to swallow, Jimmy. Either you’re playing games or someone else is. But I ain’t going to join. Just count me out.”

  “Can I see the notes?”

  There was a long pause. “I suppose so. If I refuse you’ll get them some other way. But there’s very little in them for you, it’s mostly medical tests.”

  “Can you send me a copy to my home address?”

  “If that’s what you want.”

  “How’s George Walker?”

  “No, you don’t get me helping on that one. There’s not going to be any Section 72 dropped on him. Only over my dead body.”

  “Ansell, I’m investigating what’s happened to your patient. Believe me, we’re both on the same side. And that means the establishment is on our side. If you can find out more about who ordered the detaining of the girl I’ll look into it.”

  For a few moments there was silence at the other end and then Ansell said, “I can tell you who ordered it, Boyd. Salmon and the other doctor were leaned on. Hea
vily. Virtually threatened. The application was from the Foreign Office. A guy named Carter signed it. It was passed to the Home Office and they just rubber-stamped it through the system. Do you get the message now? Either the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand’s up to, or you’re playing games with me as well as with the girl.”

  “I assure you it’s not me playing games, Ansell. I’ll start checking on it.”

  “You didn’t sound surprised.”

  “Nothing surprises me, Ansell. Not any more. But I still need your cooperation.”

  “I’ll send you a copy of the medical notes. After that I’ll need a lot of persuading.”

  For two days Boyd tried to check discreetly on what operation Carter’s units were working on. He was able to trace a section operating in Cairo and two in the Far East who had been there for over six months, but Carter himself was “not available” officially, and that meant that further checking, however subtle, would certainly be reported to the top. The top brass were never too happy about most of Carter’s operations but SIS couldn’t operate successfully without them, and they gave him whatever protection and security was possible. The Deputy Under Secretary had once responded to the distaste expressed by a Prime Minister for Carter’s thugs, as being the distaste of those who complained about abattoirs but still relished a good steak.

  Slowly and painstakingly he wrote down a list of the basic information he had accumulated about Walker and Debbie Shaw. He listed separately the loose ends of information that seemed to lead nowhere and finally he wrote out a column headed “What I want to know.” There was no entry under that column. He had no idea of where it was all going or what he wanted to know. He was just stumbling around in a strange, misty wood, bumping into a tree now and again. For the sake of routine he wrote—“Who and why?”

  He knew what his next move had to be, but he hesitated about taking it. It could open it up so wide that the whole thing would get out of hand. But instinct and experience told him that it was already out of hand. Maybe phoning Schultz would cut it back to size.