by Ted Allbeury
“But he was put in the White House by the people’s vote.”
Symons half-smiled. “He was put in by a combination of every minority we have. The Irish, the Catholics, the blacks, the Hispanics, the poor, the manual workers. They were used and orchestrated just the same way any other political group makes a candidate into a president. There’s nothing to choose between them, any of them. People expect too much. None of them matter. The Kennedys didn’t matter. They were just figureheads. Prettier than most, but nothing more.”
“And the people who arranged their killings?”
“They were the people with real power. They proved that.”
“How did they persuade you to carry out these hypnotism programmes?”
“I need a crap.”
Boyd walked Symons to the toilet. Released his right hand and clipped the handcuffs and Symons’s left hand to a pipe on the wall. Boyd stood outside the toilet door. When Symons called out Boyd released him, and Symons said, “Can I wash my face?”
Boyd nodded and led Symons to the sink in the kitchen. He didn’t fasten back the handcuffs when the washing was over. When they were back at the table Boyd returned to the question.
“What motivated you?”
“I guess at first it was the fact that I was picked out. Headhunted. When you’re very young it’s flattering. And then of course there’s the sheer scope of what you can do. No more rats in experimental cages, but real people. Everything you do is new. Virgin territory. Maybe no more than three other psychiatrists in the world know the things that I know. There’s no frontiers. Nothing’s closed to you. And almost everything you discover has some use for the CIA or the Pentagon.
“You’re not as vulnerable as even a four-star general. There are thousands of three- and two-star generals with much the same qualifications, eager to take over and capable of doing the job just as well if not better. But there was nobody to replace me. Not one single soul could take over from me.” Symons paused. “You won’t be able to understand what it’s like to be unique. It’s almost like being God. I don’t mean playing God … any totalitarian dictator can do that. Being God is different.”
“It didn’t concern you that you were distorting people’s minds. Maybe ruining their lives.”
“You mean people like Walker and the Shaw girl?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t consider their lives are ruined. Walker is healthy. He’s got a block of about a year in his life, but thousands of enlisted men have worse than that from their service. And his mind’s not distorted. Just changed a bit.”
“And the girl?”
“Oh for Christ’s sake. The reason she’s detained is a security problem. If she’s leaking she’s got problems from time to time when it happens. Not much worse than having rather bad nightmares. She’s still pretty. Nice tits and legs. She’ll get by most of the time.”
“What about their parents, wives, husbands? They’re affected too. Seeing somebody you love have nightmares while they’re awake. Shivering, sobbing, vomiting. And none of them have any idea why it’s happening or what caused it. They’re seen as mentally sick people. And they are. You made them so.”
Symons shrugged and sighed. “We don’t see eye to eye. It’s impossible to explain to a layman.”
“It isn’t. You’ve explained. But explaining doesn’t make it less outrageous.”
“Can we do a deal? I’ll do my best to unlock the suicide programme.”
“Will you make a full confession and sign it?”
Symons’s amazement was obviously genuine. “A confession? There’s nothing to confess, Boyd. I did my duty as required of me.”
Boyd nodded. “I’m going out for about half an hour. I’m going to have to tie you up and gag you. Do you want to be sitting or lying?”
“I don’t give a damn which way you do it.”
22
Cartwright took a plane to Newcastle and hired a car at the airport. The A1 was heavy with trucks and cars, and he hated driving at night. At Alnwick he missed the turn-off to the 1340 and it took him another hour to find the hotel at Beadnell. It was small and friendly and when he had booked in he asked for Boyd’s room number.
He knocked on the door of Room 17 and tried the handle. The door wasn’t locked and Boyd was asleep on the bed. Fully dressed except for his shoes and jacket. Cartwright closed the door quietly and looked around the room. Both the ceiling light and the bedside lamp were still on so Cartwright guessed that Boyd had only slept after it was dark. He could see no bag, no belongings of any kind, and Boyd’s face looked as though he hadn’t shaved for at least one day. And then the telephone rang. Boyd stirred and sighed, and opening his eyes he pulled himself up to lean against the pillows. As he reached for the phone he saw Cartwright.
“Answer it, James. There’s no hurry.”
Boyd put the receiver to his ear. His speech was slow and hesitant.
“Yes … hi, kid. Thanks for ringing … I can’t hear you … I’m OK … nothing special, I just wanted to hear your voice … that’s probably because I was asleep … yes … yes … well get the rental company to fix it, that’s what we pay ’em for … how’s the painting going … good … sounds great … no, nothing special … not before the weekend at the earliest … just have a bath and a meal and then maybe I’ll take a walk … it’s small but nice. You’d like it … say I’d better go, someone’s knocking on the door … I love you too … sometime tomorrow … bye, sweetie.”
Boyd swung his legs to the floor as he replaced the receiver. It was several seconds before he looked back at Cartwright.
“Why don’t you sit down?”
Cartwright lifted the straight-backed chair and moved it so that he could sit facing Boyd.
“What is it, James, why did you want me so urgently?”
Boyd sighed. “You won’t believe it. I’m not sure I believe it myself.” He turned to look at Cartwright. “Maybe it’s better I don’t tell you. Maybe I should just deal with it myself.”
Cartwright knew from experience that Boyd wasn’t the kind who needed to dramatize his feelings or his operations. He said nothing as he looked at Boyd’s face. It was pale and drawn, the nostrils pinched, and a small muscle was spasming under his left eye.
Boyd sighed again, a deep sigh. “There are two CIA men. They’ve been living in a house a few miles from here. They’ve been in this country for nearly two years. They’ve got forged Canadian passports and they’re not on the US Embassy list or any other list. They were sent over here to take the heat off the CIA from the Senate investigations into the Kennedy assassinations. John F and Bobby.” He paused as his eyes watched Cartwright’s face. “They’re psychologists or psychiatrists. I don’t know which. They hypnotize people for the CIA to use.” Boyd shook his head. “They’re out of some science-fiction scenario, Ken. It’s incredible.”
Cartwright noticed the use of his Christian name. Boyd seldom called him anything but Cartwright, or maybe “sir” if they were in front of other people.
“Don’t worry, James. We can just ship them quietly back to the States, or wherever Langley would like them to go. I can phone Washington tonight. We don’t need to pressure them.”
Boyd shook his head. “We do. They’ve been cooperating with Carter’s group … doing the same sort of things over here.”
“What sort of things?”
“That soldier. The one who has nightmares. They hypnotized him, and Carter’s people used him to kill people. At least seven, maybe more. And there’s a girl.” He shook his head again, in disbelief at what he was going to say. “She killed the two IRA men, O’Hara and Rafferty. They hypnotized her and told her to do it. She doesn’t know she’s done it. Neither does the soldier know what he’s done.”
There was a long pause and then Cartwright said, “I have to say it, James … are you sure about all this?”
“Quite sure.”
“Can you prove it?”
Boyd shrugged. “Some of it.�
��
“Enough to convince a court?”
“I doubt it. Maybe if I had top-class medical help. I just don’t know.”
“Are they still at the house?”
“No.”
“Where are they?”
Boyd looked away, towards the darkness of the window. “I’ve got one of them stashed away. The other one is still at the house.”
“What do you mean—stashed away?”
“I collared him to make him talk. He’s the one who matters.”
“Where is he now?”
“Can this be off the record?”
“No. Why should it be?”
“We can’t just let those bastards creep back to the States like nothing has ever happened. We should inform somebody over there.”
“Who?”
“Congress, the Senate, the President even. They should know what the CIA are doing for God’s sake. The one I’ve got hypnotized Oswald, and the other one hypnotized Sirhan Sirhan, these two goons programmed them to assassinate the President of the United States and the US Attorney-General, a presidential candidate.”
“And you’re suggesting that the CIA arranged it?”
“Not the top brass maybe. But a group like Carter’s people. Killers. Thugs. Working with the Mafia.”
Cartwright didn’t hurry to respond. If you’ve spent half your life in MI6 you know things, and have heard things, that often seem incredible, that may be the figment of some over-heated operator’s imagination. And almost always they’re true. But this was too much. It didn’t hang together, and it had a cast like Birth of a Nation with guest stars. The President, his brother, the CIA and the Mafia. And two men who could programme hypnotized people to commit murder and not know what they had done. Even half of it would have been too much. He should have kept better contact with Boyd and then he would have seen those first tell-tale signs of a man who was coming apart from worry or exhaustion, or both.
“How long have you been at this hotel, James?”
“I got here about four o’clock.”
“How long have you slept?”
“A couple of hours.”
“You look worn out. Why don’t you get a good night’s rest and then we’ll sort this thing out together. One more day won’t make any difference.”
“I can’t leave him there. He might get away.”
“Let me come with you. You can sleep in that place. You need some sleep, James. You really do.”
Boyd shook his head. “I need to know that we aren’t going to cover up for those bastards.”
“That’ll be for other people to decide. Not you and me.”
“I can’t go along with that, Ken. If our people let these two off the hook there’s something terribly wrong with what we’ve all been doing.”
“This has got nothing to do with what you and I do.”
“It has for me.”
“Tell me.”
“I’ve done things … all sorts of things, that I didn’t like doing. Pressuring people until they couldn’t take any more … threatening to harm a man’s wife … killing people … but to me it was in a just cause. The end really did justify the means. They were people who wanted to destroy us … our way of life … democracy. But I always thought there was a point … a line … beyond which we’d never go … not even as a last resort. They were always people in the business … agents, subversives … they knew what they were doing. Knew the risks they were taking if we caught them. But these are innocent people. A girl about the same age as my Katie. A pretty girl. These two bastards have turned her into a zombie. She’s killed men in cold blood and she hasn’t the vaguest idea that she’s done it.” He paused and his voice shook as he went on. “Do you know what the last thing was in her programming?”
“No.”
“Guess.”
“I’ve no idea, James. Tell me.”
“When somebody recites five numbers to her. Anywhere. Anytime. She kills herself. Wherever she is she goes to Beachy Head and jumps.” There were tears on Boyd’s cheeks. “That could be my Katie, Ken.”
“Where is the girl now?”
“In London. Held in a mental hospital on Carter’s say-so. She runs a theatrical agency. She’s successful. Every now and then she takes a few days’ break and then she’s back at her desk. And in those few days she’s killed somebody and she doesn’t know a damn thing about it.”
“We can give her protection.”
“How?”
“We can explain what’s happened. Get her treatment. Keep her under surveillance.”
“And all that bastard has to do is phone her and say those five numbers and she’s on her way to Eastbourne, and nothing and nobody can stop her. She won’t just do it, she’ll want to do it. Because she’s been fed some rational reason for doing it. She’s three different people and she might just as well be dead. Her brain is like a real can of worms.”
“Why did you ask me to come up to see you?”
Boyd sighed. “Now you’re here I’m not sure. I think I had some vague feeling that you could tell me that none of it was true. That you knew all about it and it was just a cover scenario.”
“And if it wasn’t, what did you expect me to do?”
“I thought you might agree with me that it has to be exposed.”
“I can’t believe you really expected that.”
“Maybe not expected … just hoped. I thought you’d be on my side.”
“I am on your side. You’re one of my officers, and apart from that I like you. And I respect your judgement. But if half of what you’ve told me is provable, then deciding what action to take is not in my hands. You must know that. I’ve got an advantage over you. Several advantages. I’ve not been involved in all this, and I’m not tired out as you are. You’re still in the woods and I’m outside. There isn’t any choice for me, and that means there isn’t any choice for you. It’s for others to decide. From the sound of it the decision may have to be made by the Prime Minister. Meantime, you get some sleep. I’m in Room 21, let’s have breakfast together about nine o’clock. OK?”
Boyd stood up slowly. “What the hell are we going to do?”
Cartwright smiled. “We’re both going to get a good night’s sleep.”
Cartwright drove the few miles up to Bamburgh and phoned a London number. He said very little beyond asking for an early meeting with the Deputy Under-Secretary. The problem he faced now was political not intelligence. All intelligence was political to some extent, but this looked as if it might be entirely political, and out of the area that SIS would consider as its own. It could end up as government to government with a dozen variations of a suitable deal. There were prizes in the situation for SIS if they cooperated with the CIA, but it would depend on the attitudes of the top echelons of both agencies as to how it should be handled. There would be men like Boyd in the CIA. Dedicated men. Where patriotism wasn’t mere nationalism but was based on preserving a way of life. The sort of men who, long ago, had toiled and fretted over the writing of the American Constitution to protect the citizen from the state. There were times when those good men had to be overruled, their ideals set aside. And Cartwright was sure that this was going to be one of those times. He sympathized with the feelings of the Boyds of this world, but part of his own function was to decide when the man at the top had to be given an option on what should be done.
It was not that Cartwright was less scrupulous a man than Boyd and the others. Just that because of his longer experience he knew that there were times when expediency had to replace decency. The Boyds of SIS and CIA frequently went outside the law themselves, and when you were in that particular no-man’s-land you shouldn’t complain when others decided to go deeper into the slime. Protest if you like. Refuse to play a part in it. But don’t, repeat don’t, get in the way. And Boyd was shaping up to get in the way. For his own sake, and the service’s sake, he had to be contained and stopped. He would give a couple of days to persuasion, but after that Boyd
would have to be shifted sideways, away from the operation.
Standing outside the phone-box he looked up at the sky and then across to the impressive outline of Bamburgh Castle. He crossed the road and the grass verge, and took the narrow winding path down to the beach. The tide was ebbing and in the moonlight the sand looked white and clean. Out to sea there was a cluster of lights from the fishing cobles that were based at Seahouses, and on the horizon an Aldis light was winking from a Royal Navy frigate to the radio station at Boulmer down the coast. He turned to look up at the towering pile of the castle. It was more a fortress than a castle, but it had once been the home of the Kings of Northumbria, in the even bloodier days of the border wars with the Scots. Nothing much had changed except the means of waging war.
Cartwright was down in the small dining room by 8.45 and when the waiter appeared he asked for coffee and told him that he would wait for Mr. Boyd. The waiter hesitated.
“Mr. Boyd left. He checked out last night.”
“What time did he leave?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t on duty last night. Do you want me to ask reception?”
Cartwright nodded. “Yes, please.”
When the waiter came back the news was that Boyd had checked out just before midnight and had paid his bill in cash.
Cartwright ordered the full breakfast and a copy of The Guardian. It was going to be one of those days.
Cartwright phoned London and an hour later he stood incongruously on the wide golden beach as the RAF helicopter came clattering in from the sea. He stood there with his suitcase on the sands at his feet, watching the chopper settle down lightly a hundred feet away.