Bagley, Desmond - The Enemy Page 11

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN My relationship with Penny improved although neither of us referred to marriage. The shock of Mayberry's error had been shattering and I stuck around and helped her pick up the pieces; from then on propinquity did the rest. She was persuaded by Lumsden to stay with her work and her life took a triangular course—her home, her work, and whatever hospital Gillian happened to be in at the time. Mayberry was thoroughly investigated, by a band of psychiatrists and by Mansell, the department's best interrogator, a soft-spoken man who could charm the birds from the trees. They all came to the same conclusion: Mayberry was exactly what he appeared to be—a nut case. 'And a bit of a coward, too,' said Mansell. 'He was going for Lumsden at first, but thought a woman would be easier to handle.' 'Why did he pick on Lumsden's crowd?' I asked. 'A natural choice. Firstly, Lumsden is very well known—he's not as averse to talking to newspaper reporters as a lot of scientists are. He gets his name in the papers. Secondly, he hasn't been reticent about what he's been doing. If you wanted a handy geneticist Lumsden would be the first to spring to mind.' Mayberry was the deadest of dead ends. Which caused the problem Ogilvie and I had anticipated. If the acid attack had been fortuitous why should Ashton have bolted? It made no sense. Once Mayberry had been shaken down the guards were taken from Penny and Gillian, and my legmen were put to other work. Ogilvie had little enough manpower to waste and the team investigating the Ashton case was cut down to one—me, and I wasted a lot of time investigating mistaken identities. Ashton's bolthole was well concealed. And so the weeks—and then the months—went by. Gillian was in and out of hospital and finally was able to live at home, managing on a quarter of her normal eyesight. She and Penny were making plans to go to the United States where she would undergo plastic surgery to repair her ravaged face. Once, when I persuaded Penny to dine with me, she asked, 'What did you find in that big vault of Daddy's?' It was the first time she had shown any interest. 'Nothing.' 'You're lying.' There was an edge of anger. 'I've never lied to you, Penny,' I said soberly. 'Never once. My sins have been those of omission, not commission. I may have been guilty of suppressio veri but never suggestio falsi.' 'Your classical education is showing,' she said tartly, but she smiled as she said it, her anger appeased. 'Strange. Why should Daddy build such a thing and not use it? Perhaps he did and found it too much trouble.' 'As far as we can make out it was never used,' I said. 'All it contained was stale air and a little dust. My boss is baffled and boggled.' 'Oh, Malcolm, I wish I knew why he disappeared. It's been over three months now.' I made the usual comforting sounds and diverted her attention. Presently she said, 'Do you remember when you told me of what you really do? You mentioned someone called Lord Cregar.' 'That's right.' 'He's been seeing Lumsden.' That drew my interest. 'Has he? What about?' She shook her head. 'Lummy didn't say.' 'Was it about Mayberry?' 'Oh, no. The first time he came was before you told us about Mayberry.' She wrinkled her brow. 'It was two or three days after you opened the vault.' 'Not two or three weeks?' 'No—it was a matter of days. Who is Lord Cregar?' 'He's pretty high in government, I believe.' I could have told her that Cregar had smuggled her father out of Russia a quarter of a century earlier, but I didn't. If Ashton had wanted his daughters to know of his Russian past he would have told them, and it wasn't up to me to blow the gaff. Besides, I couldn't blab about anything listed under Code Black; it would be dangerous for me, for Ogilvie and, possibly, Penny herself. I wasn't supposed to know about that. All the same it was curious that Cregar had been seeing Lumsden before we knew about Mayberry. Was there a connection between Ashton and Lumsden—apart from Penny—that we hadn't spotted? I caught the eye of a passing waiter and asked for the bill. As I drained my coffee cup I said, 'It's probably not important. Let's go and keep Gillian company.' Ogilvie sent for me next morning. He took an envelope, extracted a photograph, and tossed it across the desk. 'Who's that?' He wore a heavy coat and a round fur hat, the type with flaps which can be tied down to cover the ears but which never are. Wherever he was it was snowing; there were white streaks in the picture which was obviously a time exposure. I said, 'That's George Ashton.' 'No, he isn't,' said Ogilvie. 'His name is Fyodr Koslov, and he lives in Stockholm. He has a servant, an elderly bruiser called Howell Williams.' Another photograph skimmed across the desk. I took one look at it, and said, 'That be damned for a tale. This is Benson. Where did you get these?' 'I want you to make quite sure,' said Ogilvie. He took a sheaf of photographs and fanned them out. 'As you know, we had a couple of bad pictures of Ashton and none at all of Benson. You are the only person in the department who can identify them.' Every one of the photographs showed either Ashton or Benson, and in two of them they were together. 'Positive identification,' I said flatly. 'Ashton and Benson.' Ogilvie was pleased. 'Some of our associated departments are more co-operative than others,' he remarked. 'I had the pictures of Ashton circulated. These came back from a chap called Henty in Stockholm. He seems to be quite good with a camera.' 'He's very good.' The pictures were unposed—candid camera stuff—and very sharp. 'I hope he's been circumspect. We don't want them to bolt again.' 'You'll go to Stockholm and take up where Henty left off. He has instructions to co-operate.' I looked out at the bleak London sky and shivered. I didn't fancy Stockholm at that time of year. 'Do I contact Ashton? Tell him about Mayberry and persuade him to come back?' Ogilvie deliberated. 'No. He's too near Russia. It might startle him to know that British Intelligence is still taking an interest in him—startle him into doing something foolish. He had a low opinion of us thirty years ago which may not have improved. No, you just watch him and find out what the hell he's doing.' I took the sheet of paper with Henty's address in Stockholm and his telephone number, then said, 'Can you think of any connection between Cregar and Professor Lumsden?' I told him Penny's story. Ogilvie looked at the ceiling. 'I hear backstairs gossip from time to time. There could be a connection, but it's nothing to do with Ashton. It can't have anything to do with Ashton.' 'What is it?' He abandoned his apparent fascination with the electric fittings and looked at me. 'Malcolm, you're getting to know too damned much—more than is good for you. However, I'll humour you because, as I say, this is only servants' hall rumour. When this department was set up we took a sizeable chunk from Cregar which diminished his outfit considerably, so he began to empire-build in a different direction. The story is that he's heavily involved in CBW—that would explain any interest he has in Lumsden.' By God it would! Chemical and bacteriological warfare and what Lumsden was doing fitted together like hand in glove. 'Is he still in security?' 'No, he's executive. He mediates between the Minister and the scientists. Of course, with his experience he also handles the security side.' I could just imagine Cregar happily contemplating some previously inoffensive microbe now armed for death and destruction by genetic engineering. 'Is he in with the Porton Down crowd?' 'The Ministry of Defence is closing down Porton Down,' said Ogilvie. 'I don't know where Cregar does his juggling with life and death. Microbiol ogy isn't like atomics; you don't need a particle accelerator costing a hundred million and a power plant capable of supplying energy for a fair-sized city. The physical plant and investment are both relatively small, and Cregar may have a dozen laboratories scattered about for all I know. He doesn't talk about it—not to me.' I contemplated this, trying to find a link with Ashton, and failed. There was only Penny, and I said so. Ogilvie asked, 'Has Cregar talked to her?' 'No.' 'I told you it can't have anything to do with Ashton,' he said. 'Off you go to Sweden.' There was something else I wanted to bring up. 'I'd like to know more about Benson. He's probably filed away in Code Black.' Ogilvie looked at me thoughtfully then, without speaking, got up and went into the room behind his desk. When he came back he was shaking his head. 'You must be mistaken. Benson isn't listed—not even under Code Green.' 'But I took him up as far as Code Purple,' I said. 'Someone is monkeying around with that bloody computer.' Ogilvie's lips tightened. 'Unlikely,' he said shortly. 'How unlikely?' 'It's not easy to suborn a computer. It would need an expert.' 'Experts are ten a penny�
�and they can be bought.' Ogilvie was palpably uneasy. He said slowly, 'We aren't the only department on line with this computer. I've been pressing for our own computer for several years but without success. Some other department . . .' He stopped and sat down. 'Who determines what material is added to the files—or removed?' 'There's an inter-departmental review committee which meets monthly. No one is authorized to add or subtract without its approval.' 'Someone has subtracted Benson,' I said. 'Or, more likely, he's been blocked off. I'll bet someone has added a tiny subprogram which would be difficult to find—if Benson is asked for say there's no one here of that name.' 'Well, it's for me to deal with,' said Ogilvie. 'There's a meeting of the review committee on Friday at which I'll raise a little bit of hell.' He stuck his finger out at me. 'But you know nothing about this. Now, go away. Go to Sweden.' I got up to leave but paused at the door. 'I'll leave you with a thought. I got into the Ashton case by asking Nellie about Ashton. Two hours later I was on the carpet in your office with you and Cregar asking awkward questions. Did Cregar come to you with it?' 'Yes.' 'In two hours? How did he know who was asking questions about Ashton unless the computer tipped him off? I don't think you have far to look for the chap who is monkeying around with it.' I left leaving Ogilvie distinctly worried.