When Donald Wollenstein arrived at the Regent's Park headquarters, C insisted on Tyreen's being present --- always a difficult situation. Tyreen got along quite well --- although not that well --- with Donald Wollenstein, while the CIA resident was anathema to her chief. Why exactly, she didn't know. Apparently it was over something that had happened years ago. What that something was, Tyreen didn't know and wasn't curious enough to ask either man.
The meeting, predictably, was frosty, with C starting off by making a formal complaint about Henry Harper, undercover agent for the US Internal Revenue Service, being involved in an unsanctioned operation on British territory. C was starchy, while Wollenstein tried to act in a very composed and relaxed manner.
"First of all, sir, let me tell you, I have nothing to do with any operation mounted by the IRS in this country. You're beating the wrong melon. If there's a serious complaint, then it should go through the Ambassador to the Court of St. James, not through me."
"I think we can avoid that." C remained unconvinced.
"That's good, sir. Saves an awful lot of paperwork."
"To hell with the paperwork, Wollenstein. I know you people, and I know you could get the ear of the United States IRS in two minutes flat if we made it worth your while."
Wollenstein spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "That what you want me to do, sir?"
After a long pause, C answered, "Yes." Another silence, followed by a deep sigh. "This ghastly attack..."
"Lord Stephen Mills? I heard. Ghastly's the right word."
"There's some evidence that an American's involved."
Wollenstein sat up straight. "Jesus Christ!"
"No. An American." C stared at the CIA officer. His face would have made a fifth at Mount Rushmore. "I have evidence of this involvement, which I intend to put in front of COBRA, which has been convened for midnight tonight. I also intend to ask that you, as the CIA's Head of Station in this country, are co-opted onto COBRA."
Wollenstein sank back into this chair. "Well..."
"You're willing to be co-opted? I have to ask. Nobody has any right to push you. I should add it is our opinion that the Glastonbury business is only the opening shot in something pretty desperate."
Quietly, Wollenstein said he would help in any way possible. They allowed him access to a private, secure telephone so that he could talk at length with Washington and obtain permission, first to serve with COBRA, second to allow Henry Harper to become involved in a British covert operation. C would give no precise details, but left Wollenstein in no doubt that the operation would be a joint affair, using the SB, the Metropolitan Police, SAS, MI5, the IRS man, and C's own Service.
"I've refrained from telling him that you are to be at the starting gate before anyone else," C told Tyreen rather smugly while the American was making his call. "COBRA --- if I know the way those people work --- will be up all night, and come to some decision by late tomorrow. By then I would expect you to have made considerable progress."
Tyreen did not say that she needed considerable sleep as well, though she did push things along as soon as Wollenstein returned, bringing with him the news that everything had been accepted in Washington. "There'll be a coded telex on the line by now giving the okay for Harper to work with you." He turned and favored Tyreen with a smile that was almost a leer. "Better watch out for that charmer, Teri, he's a real lady's man."
C was not amused. He slammed a palm down on his desktop. "I said you knew about it, and I was right." His look spoke of Siberian wastes, or, preferably, Camp 19 at Lesnoi on the so-called Dubrovlag, which has facilities for foreigners.
"Okay." Wiping the almost-leer from his face, Wollenstein sank into a chair and stretched out his long legs. Not for the first time, Tyreen thought that the man was quite attractive, with his tall, deceptively lazy manner, the tanned face, sun-bleached hair, startling blue eyes very like her own eyes, and lips in an almost permanent smile. Nothing ever seemed to faze Donald Wollenstein. "You win," he said, raising both hands. "I wasn't party to it, though the damned thing went across my desk. If you want the truth, I advised the IRS to get your sanction. Obviously they didn't. But I saw his file and met him briefly when he came into the country. You want me to talk to the Ambassador?"
"We'll let it pass." C now fixed Tyreen with his most authoritarian look. "It matters not that Wollenstein's present, but the cipher for your operation is Harvester. I shall expect a good crop. Now, you'd better take Mr. Wollenstein down to see Mr. Harper." His eyes flicked back toward the CIA man. "And you had better come straight back here. We'll be going on to COBRA in the hope they'll agree to your being co-opted straightaway."
They rose --- Wollenstein giving a little mock bow --- and, as they left, C called Tyreen back to his desk. "Don't forget, Mackenzie, you can have whatever you need. I'm circulating the cipher Harvester to all sections. They will know you're in command. For God's sake, wrap them up, if possible, before anything else happens."
The meeting between Henry Harper and Donald Wollenstein was brief. Tyreen excused herself after three minutes to "Go and see somebody about security." Harper had done all the necessary talking and was free to leave, so when Tyreen returned, she suggested Wollenstein should return upstairs. "I'm going to see you home, Harper. I want you to get plenty of rest, and I've already arranged a good watch on your flat. You'll be safe. Nobody's going to get near you during the night, that I can promise."
"Oh!" He gave a lopsided smile. "I was hoping you'd stay with me yourself." He had been quite shaken after the affair at the Avante Carte offices; the attack at the Kilburn safe house had really terrified him. He was doing a good job of putting himself back together again, but still seemed to be a long ways from his usual self. Or, just what was his usual self? He seemed to be real good in a crunch but then seemed to go into shock afterwards. It was as though he was fine as long as he didn't stop to think about what he was doing. Rather strange for a tax investigator, she thought. Or was it simply his lack of field experience?
Tyreen smiled, doing her best to calm and reassure him. "Thank you for your confidence, Harper, but I need rest. And so do you." That blasted SAS course really had taken something out of her if she was rejecting male companionship without even thinking.
She drove him back to the old, rather gracious, apartment block off Abingdon Road in Kensington, and went up with him, mainly to check that there was nobody lurking inside either building or flat.
It was clean --- nobody in sight --- while the flat turned out to be small and pleasant. There were jokey little things like a set of drinking beakers with the KGB crest on them. She strolled from room to room --- all four of them --- on the pretext of checking for any signs of entry. True, she was doing just that, but she also believed you could read a man by the way he lived. Henry Harper appeared to be neat, quirky, tasteful, and almost certainly very good at his job as an undercover IRS agent. The bedroom was simple and masculine, with unfussy sheets and pillowcases. One of the closet doors was open, so she swept the clothes to one side, making certain that was all the cupboard contained. She also glanced at the telephone and saw that he had carefully covered the number with a white sticker.
"Seems okay," she said finally, emerging from the bedroom.
"A nightcap, Teri?" he asked in a voice indicating hope that she might change her mind and stay with him.
She shook her head. "Big day tomorrow, Harper. I want us both fresh and raring to go."
"And just where are we going?"
"First, I suppose we'd better get the man we'll be working with to take us on a guided tour around the last place these Meek Ones used as home ---near Pangbourne, in Berkshire." She waved a hand in the general direction, not that anything could be seen in that direction from that room.
"Right." He sank into a chair.
She moved toward the door. "Get some rest, Harper. It's been a rough day."
He gave a mocking little laugh that disintegrated into a sob. "Is that supposed to be the famous English understatement? Sure, sure, I'm a trained undercover operator. It's taken weeks, months, to set me up with the Meek Ones. Then, in a day, for the first time in my life I face real violence --- real death --- not once, but twice. Don't you see what that can do?" He had been fighting not to show weakness before a woman, and lost, sinking further into the chair, bringing his hands up to his face in a futile effort to hide the tears.
She turned back toward him. "I'm not being callous, Harper, but it's something..."
"I've got to learn to live with! Yes, that's what they tell you in training, and I honestly don't know if I can live with it." He took a deep, shuddering breath without looking up. "That man ---Sanders. Did I... Teri, did I kill him?"
"You've been very well trained, Harper. It was you or him --- or me, come to that." She laid a hand on his shoulder. "You did exactly what anyone of your training would have done. And you did very well." She gave his shoulder a squeeze. "Thank you."
"Did... did I kill him?" He looked as though he was about to break down again. "I... I've never killed anyone before."
"Yes." She spoke with firmness, her voice almost etched with cruelty, her hand still on his shoulder. "You killed him, Harper, just as anyone else would have done --- anyone in our kind of trade anyway. You killed him, and to live with it, you have to put it away, close it from your mind, otherwise the next time it will be you, stretched out on a morgue slab. Get it out of your mind."
"How?" he almost shouted. "You ever killed anyone?"
She took her hand from his shoulder and stepped back, forcing herself to meet his eyes. "Yes," she replied calmly. "It's part of my job. You just have to do it, and then get it out of your mind."
"How?" he asked again, his voice almost returning to normal.
She thought for a second as she moved closer to him. Then: "Earlier today you mentioned the way the IRS once trapped Al Capone. Well, there's a story from that era which might help. Okay, so they were ruthless killers, the old mob, but in our kind of business it's ruthlessness that counts. The famous Bugsy Malone --- killer, gambling boss, you name it --- once turned on somebody who upset him in public and said the two most chilling words I can think of. He said, 'Be missing.' The man concerned was never seen again. Harper, you have got to be that cold about things like today. You have to say to Sanders, 'Be missing.' Missing from your mind."
He looked at her, trying to reconcile her interior with her exterior. Minutes seemed to tick away, then he took another deep breath. "You're right, Teri. Of course you're right. It's just.... Well, facing it for the first time, it's shaken me up."
She leaned forward, putting her hand back on his shoulder. "You must unshake it, Harper. Otherwise I'm going to have you kept in the office or returned to Washington. I can't afford that kind of uncertainty and sentiment if we're to work together."
"Okay." Putting his hand over hers, he gave a small nod. "I'll be okay. Thanks, Teri."
She bent forward and kissed him, hard on the mouth. Then she pulled away just as his arms started to wrap around her. Again she thought it would be all too easy to sit in his lap, to become deeply involved with this man, but until she was completely certain of him, it was too much of a risk. She straightened up. "Harper, I'm sorry but I must go."
He nodded and gave her a smile. "I'll be fine now. Sorry. Oh, and by the way, my friends call me Henry." The smile changed to a frown. "You are my friend, aren't you?"
She gave him a look meant to convey trust, confidence, and warmth. "Of course, Harp... Henry."
"Stay, Teri. Please." There was a pleading tone in his voice, like a child not wanting to be left alone in a dark room with monsters under the bed. Yet there was also a tone of a man asking a woman he found desirable to spend the night with him.
Again she was tempted, but only for a moment. "We have work to do. You need rest. We both do. Let's see what happens when we get a little further down the road, Henry, eh?"
He looked disappointed, then managed a weak smile.
She arranged to pick him up in the morning, ten minutes after the time she had fixed with Goldman. "Okay, Henry. Good night. Sleep well, and banish the nightmares."
"I'll try."
"Tomorrow, then."
His smile was growing stronger. "It's a date." He came toward her, trying for at least a goodnight kiss if he couldn't get her to spend the night.
She had already encouraged him too much with her earlier kiss and she was paying for it now. It really would be too easy to get involved with this young man, and the temptation was growing. Not wanting to give in to the temptation, she turned toward the door. "It's work, Henry, not a date."
"It's another day, and the trip to Berkshire'll be like a picnic after the last twenty-four hours. See you, Teri." He really sounded disappointed, but not enough to make her stay.
Leaving the building, she spotted the lone van at the end of the street, while one of the foot patrol stepped from a doorway to be seen. Her security was there, in place.
As she started the car, Tyreen thought she trusted Henry Harper just about as much as she trusted Goldy Goldman, which still was not a whole lot. She also smiled at the thought that their first call tomorrow would not be at Manderson Hall, Pangbourne. She had much more devious plans, and it would be interesting to see if any news of the Pangbourne trip had leaked.
On getting home, after one in the morning, she knew it was best to put everything out of her mind and allow that complex computer, the subconscious, to work away while she slept. Often she found this the ideal way of solving a problem, or putting her finger on some small inconsistency that had raised its head during the waking hours.
And she needed to sleep. Her conscious couldn't seem to focus on anything but the face of the young American IRS agent, Henry Harper.
The buzz saw of the radio alarm cut into the deep cocoon of sleep like a vandal's knife. Tyreen Mackenzie's eyes snapped open, every sense alert to the start of a new day. At least she hadn't had any dreams of scorpions, or if she had, she couldn't remember it.
Nor could she remember having any dreams of Henry Harper.
There was a temptation to lie there for an extra few minutes, even if only to sort facts and intuition into a well-filed order in her mind. But she could do that just as easily during her early morning routine. The time was seven-thirty. Now, as she prepared for the day, safe within the small kingdom of her own apartment, she began to sort out the whys and wherefores of the situation.
As always when she was at her own flat --- and alone --- Tyreen's morning ritual rarely changed. Once out of bed she went through the twenty slow push-ups with each arm, then, rolling onto her back, began a series of leg lifts. On her feet again, this time to touch her toes twenty times before heading for the shower --- as hot as she could stand, followed by turning the control lever to cold, so that the icy spray took her breath away.
Emily Dupré had died by drowning. Her telephone number was the only one in her Filofax. What if that had been intentional? Certainly somebody was onto her the moment C had instructed her return to London. She wondered, now, if the Dupré death had in some way been an elaborate setup. The girl would never have known if the number had been planted on her. What if? What if? What if?
What if Trilby Shepperton had been let loose in a dazed, drug-infested state, her mind filled with prophetic clues? Why, though? Why should a man like Father Valentine --- or Vladimir Scorpio as he really was --- wish to lure someone like Tyreen, or even her Service? Could it be that he was boasting? --- "Look, I've given you fair warning. Now see what I've been able to do. Kill when I've already told you in riddles. Listen out. Listen for more riddles."
It might well be like that; particularly if Scorpio was the complex intellectual villain his dossier claimed. Yet, however it was, someone had known Tyreen would be summoned, just as someone had known she would be at the Avante Carte offices.
Then, once more, they had known Henry Harper was at the Kilburn safe house. Had they come there to dispose of him or rescue him? After all, life did not appear sacred to them. Sacrifice? she wondered, just as she wondered who had done all the tipping off. Goldman? Harper? Or someone else? Wollenstein? Tyreen's mind continued to wander around in circles.
She continued to ponder on the Kilburn Priory safe house situation. Tom Sweeney had been adamant that Harper had made no calls out of Kilburn, but did he really know? After all, there had been a short period of time while poor old Dan was out, and Tom had been in the control room. Tyreen knew there were ways of using an external line in that house without being seen on the monitors or picked up by the sound-stealing bugs. She then began to wonder about Sweeney, making a mental note to pull his file. One thing was sure. She could trust nobody. Not even herself, she thought, her mind wandering back to the previous night, the smell and feel of Henry Harper in her arms as they kissed briefly. A desirable young man. Certainly she could easily let that situation get out of hand if she did not watch out.
Breakfast --- toast with butter and lots of her favorite Seville marmalade, one egg boiled for precisely three minutes, and black coffee --- over, Tyreen went back into her bedroom, slipped out of the toweling robe she was wearing and put on comfortable slacks, shirt, and light jacket --- after strapping on the harness for her Walther PPK Special, and the one for the nasty little telescopic Concealable Operations Baton, a handy and secure blunt instrument that could either stop a man, reassemble his bones in an incorrect order, or kill, if used by a trained user.
Before going down into the underground car park, she made one telephone call. She spoke to C's Chief of Staff John Bannon for three minutes. Yes, the terrorist wounded in the Kilburn raid had been moved securely down to the clinic in Surrey, where Tyreen had visited Sir James Muirfield and Trilby Shepperton the previous afternoon. And, yes, he assured her there had been a team watching Manderson Hall. Yes, the code words were known and had been kept contained within a trusted Service cabal. C, as they all suspected, was still with COBRA. "They won't reach any operational agreements until late today, you can bet on it!" John Bannon said, laughing as they hung up.
She picked up Goldman right on the button, the SAS sergeant sliding into the passenger seat next to her. He was shaved and well spruced up, casually dressed in cavalry twill slacks, a light cotton rollneck, and blazer. He looked quite dashing, in fact, as he grinned. "These threads do for the chief, then, boss lady?"
"Admirable." She smiled back, taking in the man's carefully groomed appearance and trying to detect any slyness in his eyes.
The security van was still in place near the block in which Henry Harper lived. He came out onto the pavement, looking refreshed --- and rather attractive --- in blue denim. Jeans and jacket, with a white shirt. She remembered John Bannon's parting jab last night, about how she appeared to be assembling a new "harem." She quickly pushed that thought away. She had too much to think about without thinking about getting even one man into her bed, let alone a whole harem. As if she'd ever had a harem. A harem was more Marlen's style --- the last Tyreen'd heard, the Prime had a couple of SAS officers at base up north. A harem, indeed! So why did Harper's appearance get her blood racing? She quickly clamped down on it.
Harper was his old self, greeting Tyreen with a dazzling smile and the kind of look that often passed between lovers. Harper and Goldman were introduced, Harper got into the back, and Tyreen swung out into the traffic, taking the road toward the Hogarth roundabout, then heading for Guildford. As they passed through Hampton Court, with all its happy and tragic memories enshrined in the brickwork, Goldman asked if they were on the right road.
Tyreen tried to make her voice sound as casual as possible. "I usually come this way for Surrey. Bushy Park, Hampton Court, it's as good a road as any. A pretty run."
"I thought we were going to Pangbourne?" Did she detect a hint of alarm in Harper's voice from the rear of the car?
"I thought you said Pangbourne, and all, boss lady." Something there, in Goldman's voice as well.
"Slight change of plan." She kept her eyes on the road, continuing to keep her voice casual. "Not Pangbourne after all. Our lords and masters decided we'd be better off trying out a little interrogation."
"Interrogation?" A slight rise to the upper register from Harper.
"Who's being interrogated, then, boss lady?" Almost menacing from Goldman.
"The guy who got himself wounded trying to kill, or snatch, Harper here at Kilburn." Her voice remained level.
Almost as she finished the sentence, the radio crackled into life."Harvester One. Orphan to Harvester One."
Lazily, Tyreen reached forward for the hand mike. "Orphan, this is Harvester One. I hear you. Come in, Orphan."
"Orphan to Harvester One. Earthquake. Repeat, Earthquake."
"Harvester One. Understood, Orphan. I'll be in touch. Roger and out."
"Thank you, Harvester One. Out."
Tyreen understood all too well. Earthquake was the agreed code word if an incident had taken place that morning at Manderson Hall, Pangbourne, where a team had been watching since the early hours. Now something had happened. It meant that someone had tipped off the Meek Ones, or Scorpio, about the proposed visit by Tyreen and her team.
Inside the Bentley there was a new, unpleasant, tension. Rolling down the window halfway and lighting a cigarette, Tyreen drove on, silent, as were the two men with her.
"This a private game, boss lady, or can anyone join in?" Goldman asked, breaking the silence some fifteen minutes after the warning call.
"Sorry." Having finished her cigarette, Tyreen was relaxed at the wheel of the car, concentrating on the road, yet ready for anything that might erupt from either Goldman or Harper. "Sorry, I should have given you an extra briefing. You know we're on a covert operation and you've both been given the okay to work with me. Name of the Op is Harvester --- hence Harvester One. That's me."
"Earthquake?" Harper asked from the rear. In the rearview mirror Tyreen saw that he had moved forward, his face framed between Goldman's shoulders and her own. His long fingers brushed the long hair draped over her shoulder.
"We were going out to the estate at Pangbourne where the Meek Ones used to have their HQ --- ask Goldy about that. He did some observation down there. Literally, my instructions were changed at the last minute. Earthquake sounds sinister, but it's not. It only means they're ready for us at the clinic we keep near Puttenham in Surrey." Like anyone who had been in her trade for any length of time, she was a master dissembler. "Okay?"
"The place where we're going to interrogate the guy who got shot up in Kilburn?"
Tyreen gave a half laugh. "Shot himself up, really. Moral to all of us --- never fire a shotgun at close range, particularly when you're shooting at a steel-plated door."
"It didn't look like steel." Harper almost sounded wistful, as though he was sorry for the man.
"You'd have been happier if it'd been plain wood?" Tyreen actually smiled. Both Goldman and Harper were a little on edge. She wondered if they could both be plants. Two members of the Meek Ones: sleeper or penetration agents in place to keep tabs on what the authorities were doing about this strange quasi-religious society. Or was she simply imagining the tension?
They continued in silence, negotiating the outskirts of Guildford and climbing the long two-lane A-road leading to the Hog's Back, Guildford cathedral on the skyline to their left. Fifteen minutes later Tyreen took the turn off the Hog's Back and they were soon being checked by the security people at the gates of the clinic. As usual there were two men on duty in the little gatehouse, while --- Tyreen knew --- another pair operated the phalanx of closed-circuit cameras that kept their probing eyes on the whole clinic, both inside and out.
An ambulance and three or four cars were parked in the grid just to the right of the main, low white building, and she noted that Sir James Muirfield's Lancia was there, wax-polished and gleaming in the weak sun that battled with cloud in an attempt to make a decent spring day.
The reception desk was manned by a former member of 42 Commando, Royal Marines: a man Tyreen knew had been invalided from the service after being wounded in the Falklands War. Without any prompting the ex-Marine lifted the internal telephone and spoke quietly, saying that the party from London had arrived for Sir James Muirfield. They waited in silence, sitting around the reception area. Tyreen thought the other two looked uncomfortable, and her earlier intuition nagged and worried at her mind like a bad toothache.
It was ten minutes before Sir James appeared, spruce and smiling, doing some invisible hand-washing. By this time Tyreen was jumping at shadows, and the first thing to cross her mind was the meaning some psychiatrists put on that odd hand-washing motion --- the Pontius Pilate syndrome, a signal of guilt pestering the subconscious.
She introduced the pair as her "colleagues," giving no names. Muirfield shook hands with each in turn and apologized for keeping them waiting. "Been dealing with the Shepperton girl." He gave Tyreen a brisk smile.
"How's she coming along?"
"Much better than I expected, Mac. Been awake and perfectly normal for several hours this morning. Then lapsed a little. Back in dreamland again now. It'll take a few days, you know. Thank heavens her father's gone back to town. But we have two uncles and a brother visiting today."
Tyreen looked up sharply. "I didn't know she had a brother."
"Oh, my goodness, yes. Brother and sister. Between ourselves I don't get on with the brother. Asks too many questions. A little medical knowledge is a dangerous thing, Mac. The fellow read medicine at Oxford. Got sent down, though, so gave it all up."
"I wouldn't mind a word with them when we've finished." In addition to her concerns about Goldman and Harper, something vague but worrying clicked into Tyreen's mind about the Shepperton son --- Trilby's brother. Something she'd heard or read? She tried to push it away in order to concentrate on the vital job at hand. "And our patient?" she asked of Sir James Muirfield.
The consultant smiled --- knowing and almost secret. "All ready for you. I presume your colleagues have experience of these things?"
"Not sure." Tyreen turned to Goldman and Harper. "Have either of you done any courses on drug-assisted interrogation?"
"No," from Goldman. "Yes," from Harper.
"Well." Muirfield beamed at them, taking over from Tyreen. "It's much more sophisticated than in the old days when we just used to pump the suspect full of 'soap' and run questions past him." Soap was the old Service jargon for sodium pentothal. "We have better facilities now. Hypnotics that leave the mind and the subconscious clear, and the brain lucid." He turned to Tyreen. "You'll be doing all the work, I presume?"
Tyreen nodded. "Providing you do the medical stuff."
"Already done, Mac, already done. He's fast asleep. Just one quick shot of the truth serum --- as the popular spy novels call it --- and he's all yours." Muirfield looked from Harper to Goldman and back again. "It's not really a truth serum, of course. But you get quite a long way down provided you ask the right questions." He turned his twinkling eyes on Tyreen. "Presumably you've got the right questions?"
"I hope so. Did anyone get any more details when he arrived down here? Name, anything like that?"
"They tried, but he went blind, deaf, and dumb. C agreed this was the only way. I was quite bucked when he told me last night that you were coming down."
That's done it, Tyreen thought. She did not even look at Goldman and Harper, but the pair could not have missed the remark. Now they would know, guilty or not, that she had lied to them about the sudden change of plans. They would be more alert if guilty; angry if innocent. There was a brief pause, then Muirfield said they should be going down.
They walked along the corridor, past the sliding metal door of the room that housed the security watchers, who at this moment would be operating their cameras, sweeping the ground, forecourt and all the open interior areas --- the corridors and exits from the clinic. They probably had Muirfield and his three visitors on the screens now. Indeed, they would have tracked them from the Bentley, and watched them in reception, even logged their conversation on tape.
Muirfield continued to talk. He had been very impressed with the security used to bring the Kilburn terrorist from the London clinic. He described the operation as "smooth as a kidney transplant." Sir James was known for his use of medical terms during informal conversation. It was said that he had once scandalized a dinner party by saying the pudding looked like a gallbladder.
Most of the bandages had been removed from the patient's face, replaced by smaller adhesive dressings. The curtains were closed, and two anglepoise lamps were adjusted to throw light on the top end of the bed. Muirfield gestured toward a chair set near the man's head. "Looks as if he's had a rotten shave, eh?" The consultant beamed again as Tyreen took her place on the chair.
"We seem to be superfluous." Harper's voice hinted at pique. He was certainly close to anger as he stood behind Tyreen's chair.
"Boss lady, we are to be trusted, I suppose?" Goldman asked, lounging against the wall beside the door.
"Of course," Tyreen said quickly, "and no, no, you're not superfluous. Far from it, Henry, you've had dealings with these people; Goldy's been briefed. If anything comes up that strikes either of you as interesting, I want you to tell me. It might help some line of questioning." She slewed her body so that she could look toward Harper. "This man, here. Have you ever seen him before?"
Harper leaned forward, peering over her shoulder. There was a long pause before he said, "He's familiar. Two men interviewed me for the Avante Carte job --- Sanders and a taller one --- taller and of a much larger build. I saw no women when I went for the interview. There were other people about. I took them to be executives, and this was one of them. I remember thinking he was very smart: gray pinstriped suit; soft voice. Looked like any other businessman out after the job of managing a high-powered credit firm. Come to think of it, I saw him again. I was getting into a taxi outside the offices and I spotted him hailing a cab coming up behind mine."
"Did you watch it? The cab, I mean. Did it follow you?"
"Maybe. It was rush hour. Difficult to see."
Was that all true? Tyreen wondered. Or was it simply an attempt to reinforce his cover? "A general hood-of-all-work, I should imagine," she said almost to herself. Then, "Okay, Sir James, let's get on with it if you're ready."
The injection took a couple of minutes to work. The patient lay perfectly still, his head unmoving on the pillow. Then there was a flicker of eyelids. A minute later he seemed to be wide away --- eyes staring, unblinking, at the ceiling. Tyreen took a deep breath and spoke. "The meek shall inherit the earth," she began.
"The blood of the fathers will fall upon the sons.
The blood of the mothers will pass also."
The voice was natural, quiet, and with the slight trace of an accent Tyreen had noted at the London Clinic. "Tell me your name," she asked.
"My name in the world or my name in death?"
Tyreen felt a slight shiver pass through her body. The possible horror they had uncovered began to worm its way into her mind. Oh, God, a voice said at the back of her brain. If this is what I think, we're in for a time of true despair. "Both," she said at last. "Your name in the world, first."
"My true name is Abdul. Abdul el Kadar."
"You are from where?"
"In the world my country is called Egypt. But I have, naturally, disowned my country. I am a citizen of the world of the Meek Ones, which is the world in its final confusion."
"And your name in death?"
"My name in death is Joseph."
"Is there significance in that name?" As no response appeared to be forthcoming, she quickly repeated, "The meek shall inherit the earth."
"If you know that, you know that death-names are chosen at random. Death is the only significant thing."
Judging this to be some form of basic catechism, she asked, "Why is death the only significant thing?"
"Death in itself has no significance. Only the way a Meek One dies, the bravery he shows, is significant, because it is his way, as a true believer, to paradise. The Meek shall inherit only if we --- the ones chosen to go before --- change the state of the world."
"Good." She seemed to be praising a diligent student. "How shall the Meek Ones change the world?"
"By death. By bringing the final revolution, which will set man, woman, and child free from the yokes of man-made political ideals. The world can flourish only when those who rule --- justly and unjustly --- are laid low. And when all embrace the true way."
"Only then?"
"Only when the corrupt ideals, which men call politics, are smashed open and crushed like the eggs of a deadly spider. Only then can the world flourish and the people be free. All revolutions, until now, have been false, just as power, and the ambition to gain power in the imperfect world are false. The Meek shall inherit, but only when the endless wheel of revenge has turned full circle."
"Are all the Meek Ones ready?"
"Those who have been chosen, and seen the truth, are ready and waiting."
"Where do they wait?"
"In their appointed places. The unmarried and childless will do the simple tasks. The married, with children to follow after them, will do the great things. All have orders, or will be given orders. They are now scattered to the four corners of the earth. They will breed and die, so that their children can breed and die for the truth, until the wheel has turned fully."
"What are your own orders?"
"I have carried out my first task, and failed."
"Joseph, what was your first task?"
"To destroy the serpent who came to kill our Father. Our Father, Valentine, is often at risk from enemies. They must all be destroyed. I failed. Next time I shall not fail."
"Have you a new task, Joseph?"
"As I have failed, a new task will come."
"In the usual way?"
"Of course."
"Directly from our Father, Valentine?"
"Directly from his mouth only, or from one who can speak his death-name."
"And his death-name is?"
There was a long silence.
"Our Father, Valentine, Joseph? His death-name, Joseph?"
"Only our Father, Valentine's death-name changes with the sun and the moon. It is a word we cannot repeat, even to each other."
"But he will come?"
The man in the bed smiled as though in some kind of ecstasy. "He will come or send one to take me to him. I know he will come soon."
"And when he comes, you will be given a task which may lead to death?"
"I have fathered a child, so I am a chosen Meek One. I am allowed a death-task, and the glory it will bring to me, and to wife and our son. Yes, the next task will be a death-task."
"Do you know where our Father, Valentine, is now?"
"We are all scattered, but, like the God of the Christians, our Father, Valentine, knows where each of us is at any time. He can reach and pluck us out, ordering us to a new task."
The hair on Tyreen's back bristled, and she again felt the cold clammy sense of horror crawling over her own flesh. If she was reasoning correctly, this was worse than she had ever imagined. "Let our Father, Valentine, come for you, or send one to take you to him. It will be good, Joseph. Rest now." She signaled for Sir James to do what was needed to return the patient to peaceful sleep and erase all memory of this conversation from his mind.
"What was all that about?" Harper gasped, in the corridor outside Joseph's room. He came closer to Tyreen and reached for her hand.
"This guy's a loony, boss lady." Goldman was laughing. "All that old bunny about death-names, and death-task, and our Father, Valentine, knowing where everybody is."
Tyreen pulled her hand out of Harper's. "Think about it, Goldy." She sounded, and looked, grim. "Both of you, think about the implications of what that man said. Think about what happened in Glastonbury last evening and put it in context. It should wipe any smile from your face."
Muirfield joined them in the corridor. "I've sent for a nurse, Mac. I suppose, after that, we double all security." He looked as grave as Tyreen, who simply nodded.
"But what..." Harper began.
"We might even have to move him again." Tyreen overrode the American, then rounded on both of them. "Can't you begin to understand? That man in there really believes that Father Valentine is a kind of all-knowing god; and we know who he really is. Valentine is Vladimir Scorpio, who was dangerous enough when he was supplier of arms to more than half the world's terrorist organizations. That man" --- she jerked her thumb toward the door --- "and hundreds like him --- members of The Society of Meek Ones --- have swallowed a crock of mumbo-jumbo. He, and the others, believe it."
"Believe what? Death-names? Tasks? What do they believe, boss lady?"
"I don't believe you can't really see it, Goldy. Or are you just playing dumb for my benefit?" She gave a massive shrug and an irritated kind of sigh. "Well, we're going to have to get back to London. I want a quick look at Sir James' other patient and her visitors. Just wait for me in the car. I'll be along in a moment." She tossed the car keys to Goldman, knowing the chance she was taking, but willing to risk Goldman and Harper --- or even the two of them --- making a run for it. She still found it very hard to believe that neither of them had followed the obscene logic of the man, who called himself Abdul el Kadar --- death-name, Joseph. But in front of Goldman and Harper --- she had shown her own understanding of the terrible, and evil, basics behind The Society of Meek Ones.
Goldman caught the keys. "Beyond me, boss lady." He grinned. "Unless you're saying that these people're motivated by some religious fervor to act as rent-a-killer."
"That's exactly what I am saying, Goldy, and you know it. Just as you know these people are not just hired killers. The Meek Ones expect to die for the beliefs Scorpio has implanted in them. Heaven knows how he's done it --- he can't just have chosen exceptionally gullible proselytes. Anyway, I'll be up in a minute. Go ahead."
Harper still looked angry, while Goldman was a picture of bland disbelief. They nodded and went on along the corridor, climbing the stairs that would eventually lead them to the clinic's reception area.
"A pretty terrifying picture." Sir James Muirfield spoke in almost a whisper. "Tell me if I have it right. This man is a typical member of the Meek Ones. He believes everything that Valentine tells him. He's convinced that the world must be changed through revolution; that those who have been chosen will gladly die for that revolution, for they will attain some kind of paradise."
Tyreen nodded in assent. She suddenly felt very weary. "Yes, that's it as I see it. They believe all that and more. The same thing is there in many religions --- as you well know, Sir James. If taken to its logical conclusion, as Valentine --- I should say Scorpio --- has managed to do, we're now up against a small army of kamikazes. People who'll die just as Scorpio orders them. It's a self-perpetuating death machine. Thinking of the man's previous career, I wonder if this is but a horrible extension. Lease terror. He provides not only the weapons but the whole service. If you want a certain type of terrorist campaign, or just one act of violence, Scorpio will give you the entire thing --- gift wrapped --- for a fee."
Muirfield laid a hand on Tyreen's shoulder. "The whole concept is hideous. I'll get on to C. Double the security."
"I'd better tell you now." Tyreen lowered her own voice. "There's something lurking around my brain concerning Trilby Shepperton's brother. I'd like to see him, and the uncles." She almost went on to share her worries over Goldman and Harper, but there was already enough to cause anxiety to the consultant.
To give maximum security to the man who called himself Abdul el Kadar, his room had been on the deepest level of the clinic. Bypassing the elevators, they walked up two sets of stairs to get onto the second floor below ground, where Trilby Shepperton was located.
There was nobody on duty outside her door, no guards in the passageway itself. Tyreen's stomach turned over, and she began to walk more quickly, the walk turning into a trot, with the elderly Muirfield puffing to keep up with the Arion's long strides, but obviously equally concerned.
She pushed the door open and stopped for a second, standing horrified in the doorway. The nurse who had stayed on duty now lay sprawled on the floor, her head skewed at an unnatural angle. The room was in shambles, with Trilby Shepperton half out of the bed, terribly still, her long hair hanging like a waterfall brushing the floor. The drip had been ripped from her arm, shattered.
"Damn. My fault," Tyreen breathed, as Muirfield pushed past her. "I shouldn't have let the others come up here alone." She reached for the automatic inside her jacket, turning, ready to dash up the stairs.
She heard Muirfield --- by the girl's side --- say she was still alive, his hand going out to press the bell to summon assistance.
"I'll get someone." Tyreen began to run toward the stairs. At the same time, a uniformed nursing sister appeared at the top. "Down here!" Tyreen shouted at her. "The Shepperton girl's room! Sir James needs you!"
But as the sister gathered momentum, coming down the stairs at a lickety-split pace, Tyreen saw her face was a parchment gray, the eyes glazed as though in shock. "Upstairs!" She paused as they met, and her voice drew a graphic photographic image of terror. "Up there! The security people! I think they're all... They're all gone! Dead! Please, quickly. One of them's my husband!"
"Get down to Sir James," Tyreen commanded. "I'll handle everything else." And she lunged upward.
With the pistol at the ready, Tyreen reached the passage off which lay the security room. The sliding steel door was open. She stopped for a moment to take in the scene. Both the guards were dead. It was a small room and her first thought was that she had never seen so much blood in such a confined space.
There was nothing she could do for the two men, so she carried on to the main level, hugged her back to the wall and peered into reception. The carnage there appeared wanton, and she wondered how they had managed it without making a great deal of noise.
She stepped forward, the pistol still raised, and, as she did so, remembered the truth which had been niggling in her mind. Trilby Shepperton did have a brother, but the accent was on did. The Honourable Malcolm Shepperton had died, four years ago in a mountaineering accident. Switzerland --- the Matterhorn --- she thought, as though it mattered now.
The former member of 42 Commando, Royal Marines, looked as though he had caught the full blast of a heavy caliber bullet in the face. Tyreen Mackenzie could recognize him only from his build and the uniform. As in the small operations room, there appeared to be blood everywhere. It could not have come simply from the security man in reception.
Then she saw the other horrors --- the two nurses, one on her back, the other spread-eagled, as though she had been thrown against the wall, then dumped without ceremony, or thought for her dignity; for her uniform skirt had flown upward, leaving her in an almost naked state.
Both girls had been gunned down --- why no noise, Tyreen kept asking --- and the bullets had severed arteries. When this occurs, blood travels, jets, sometimes over considerable distances.
All Tyreen could think of was finding out if Goldman and Harper had assisted in this. Whoever had posed as Trilby's brother, and uncles, were certainly to blame. Had the SAS man and --- or --- the US IRS man helped?
Then she saw the other body, outside facedown on the clinic's steps, small rivers of blood forming a crimson tracery down the stone. A big man, dark-haired and dressed well, in a conservative black pinstriped suit. One of the "uncles"? Or even Trilby's "brother"? It was certainly not Goldman or Harper.
From here she could see the little security booth and its barberpole checkpoint. The pole was up and the glass around the booth shattered.
With automatic still at the ready, she ran down the steps, straight across the forecourt to the booth. There was nothing she could do now for the occupants. They were both dead, one still seated behind the glass checking window, his uniform front soaked dark brown. There was a look of incredible surprise on his face.
Turning, she began to walk back to the clinic. There were things to be done fast. As she walked she saw, almost with incredulity, the Racing Green Mulsanne Turbo still in the place where she had parked it. Only the ambulance had gone.
Inside again, she wiped some of the blood away from one of the reception phones and dialed the usual emergency number. In all Service establishments there was a system for emergencies, like the public 999 call for ambulance, police, or fire services. Dialing the number from here meant that it would ring in the nearest Secret Intelligence Office of some Army, Navy, or Air Force base. In this case it was the latter. The Air Intelligence Office at Farnborough --- that showplace for the world's aircraft which doubles under many guises: accident investigation to aircraft testing. There is always a Royal Air Force presence at Farnborough, and naturally, an Intelligence office.
Tyreen identified herself under her normal contact name of Peregrine, gave the cipher for the clinic, and the signal for a top-level emergency. This ensured that within a short time there would be a "Disposal Unit" plus a heavy security section at the clinic.
In effect this lifted any burden from her. She did not need to stay at the site. In the time it took her to walk from the telephone to the main doors, London would be informed. She went outside again and looked down at the body on the steps. A pistol lay on the ground a few paces away, and she could see without picking it up that the weapon was a clumsy-looking Walther P4 --- a normal Walther P1 fitted with a long suppressor, or noise-reduction unit: an ungainly cylinder jutting from the barrel, making the weapon around three times its normal length.
It was efficient enough, and accounted for the silent manner in which the assault had been carried out.
Thinking it best to speak to Sir James before leaving, she quickly went inside again. As the car was still there, she could get away --- a set of spare keys always rested, in a magnetic box, attached to the rear underside of the chassis.
Muirfield and the nursing sister had been joined by a male nurse, and were working on Trilby Shepperton.
Sir James, in his shirtsleeves, glanced up as Tyreen appeared in the doorway. "She's going to be all right." He was in the act of putting the needle, for a new drip, into the girl's arm. "I presume our security people did not check the visitors thoroughly enough."
"They paid dearly for it." Tyreen looked toward the nursing sister whose husband had been one of the security personnel. A shadow crossed her face, but she went on working. "I would suggest," Tyreen continued, "that you have a roll call of your staff."
"Being done already," said the male nurse.
Muirfield added that two of their regular surgeons were on the way over.
"I fear they can be of little help now." Tyreen moved forward a pace. "You'll have new security people here any minute. I don't suppose any of you know the number of the ambulance that was outside?"
The male nurse rattled off the number.
Tyreen thanked him. "I don't know which way they went, but I'll circulate the number. I think they used it as a fast getaway vehicle. I'm on my way, now, Sir James. I'd advise you to keep that other fellow as close as you can. This could well have been an attempt to release him and do away with Trilby at the same time."
Muirfield nodded. "From the look of things, your colleagues surprised them."
Could be, Tyreen thought. If they did not help the bogus relatives who had to be members of the Meek Ones.
Two trucks, three cars, and an ambulance drew into the forecourt as Tyreen left the building once again. A red-faced RAF Regiment officer, with drawn pistol, challenged her, clearing her only when he had both inspected her ID and made a call to the priority number of the HQ in Regent's Park.
The cleaning up went on as Tyreen walked to her Bentley. Already she had given the number of the ambulance to the senior plainclothes policeman who arrived, somewhat full of himself, while the RAF Regiment Squadron Leader had been finally clearing her.
She thought of the ambulance now, and took a moment to inspect the ground around the white-marked place where it had been parked. As she approached, her foot touched something on the ground --- the keys to the Bentley. There was something attached to the key ring. He picked it up to see a small stickpin had been pushed into the ring. The pin bore a small black marker at the blunt end. On the marker, neatly engraved and almost two small for the naked eye to read, were three letters. IRS.
So, she considered, Henry Harper could well have been trying to leave some kind of message. She still took no chances, carefully opening the doors and checking the Bentley to make sure nothing odd was fitted to the underside.
She climbed into the driver's seat only when she was quite satisfied that all was safe, and she did not attempt to use the radio until she had gone a good three miles. Only then did she call up the Regent's Park HQ.
She passed on the important information first --- details of the ambulance, which she was now certain had been used for the getaway; then a quick rundown on the number of casualties, and her opinion on what should be provided at the clinic in the way of new official Service security. She asked for any information regarding the ambulance to be patched through to her, then made a final request. "With respect, I ask permission to use Scarborough Fair immediately."
There was along silence at the distant end, and she knew the duty controller would be running a finger down the long lists of special ciphers. She also knew that under the word Scarborough Fair the man would find twelve words --- Permission for use of Scarborough Fair to be obtained from CSS only. Which meant that nobody in the radio control room would know what Scarborough Fair was --- even once C had given, or withheld, permission.
Only C, his Chief of Staff, and half a dozen senior officers, with need-to-know, could identify Scarborough Fair, for it was the deepest hiding place the Service kept in London. So secret that it was used mainly for highly furtive meetings between C and officers working under cover. By requesting its use, Tyreen knew she would be safe from the Meek Ones --- who would certainly be after her --- for a breathing space. She also knew that by nightfall C would visit her, and she had much to talk about with her chief.
Tyreen wound her way across country until she reached the M4, which would provide her easiest access to Scarborough Fair.
Somewhere east of the Heathrow Airport exit, the radio crackled into life again. "Orphan to Harvester One. Come in, Harvester One. Tyreen went through the normal radio routine and back came the answer. Harvester One, ambulance about which you passed information earlier has been found abandoned near Byfleet, on a remote stretch of road. Marks indicate that car was waiting to pick them up. Also there are signs of a struggle. Scarborough Fair approved for use. Out.
She acknowledged. Perhaps she had been too hard, after all, on Goldman and Harper --- or at least one of them. The rising hot blood in her body left her in no doubt that she hoped it was Harper who could be vindicated. Then the chill thought struck her --- if he was still alive. The Meek Ones, should they run true to form, were unlikely to let anyone live who had shown themselves to be active enemies.
She was on her second cigarette of the return trip when she came in past Olympia, heading for Scarborough Fair.
At the Kensington High Street end of the Earls Court Road, there is a narrow cul-de-sac that leads into a small, beautiful square. A large laburnum bush stands in the center, and three sides of the square are lined by rows of narrow, three-story Georgian terraced houses. The safe house known as Scarborough Fair is the last house at the southwestern corner. It is painted cream, with a gray door and similar colored window frames. There are window boxes outside the two windows on the second and top floors that become a blaze of color by midsummer. Only when you get close do you notice the metal grilles built into the windows, but they are not out of place. The square houses mainly people of means, and there are elaborate safety precautions taken with all the houses --- large red alarm boxes are visible on most, and burglarproof devices litter the window frames at ground level.
She parked the car in the space provided by the Borough of Kensington and Chelsea, switched off the radio, activated the car's alarm, and climbed out.
Scarborough Fair's house-minder is a Mrs. Madeleine Fairfax, the daughter of an old colleague of C. She was, to use C's words, "More silent than the grave. I doubt if she will even have a headstone carved in her own name."
She opened up immediately and ushered Tyreen in. "There's trouble," she began.
"Don't I know it." Tyreen sank into a chair, set so that she could view the entire little square through the thick net curtains.
"I doubt if you do." Already she had a light raincoat on and was preparing to leave. Mrs. Fairfax was always ready to leave when Scarborough Fair was in use. Only C appeared to know where she went and how to get her back.
"Oh?"
"He says will you call him immediately. On the scrambler. The keys are on the table, as you can see, the alarms are deactivated, as are the son et lumière devices," by which she meant the facilities installed to steal both conversation and video recordings. "I'll be off now." She gave a tiny flash of a smile and was gone, walking across the square, her stride quick and purposeful.
There were two telephones on the ledge of a bookcase near the window. They looked identical, but the few people who had access to Scarborough Fair knew that the right-hand instrument was a direct scrambler line to C. Tyreen picked up the receiver.
The distant instrument rang twice before C answered, and they both went through the routine establishing codes.
"Glad you got in." C sounded subdued.
"The clinic's like an abattoir."
"Not the only place, I fear."
"Oh, no?"
"I'm afraid it's oh, yes."
"Where?"
"Chichester. Near the cathedral. Local Labour Party candidate had a former Labour Prime Minister there." C gave the name.
"Killed?" Tyreen felt the shock even more, coming on top of what she had seen and heard in the last hours.
"Both of them, and over twenty people in the crowd. Another thirty injured."
"Same MO?"
"We think so. Boyer's here with me now. Watch the television, get some rest. I shall be over shortly."
The line was closed abruptly, and Tyreen crossed to the big color television on the far side of the room. All four channels had live broadcasts coming from the scene of this latest disaster. She could make out the cathedral, seemingly in the background amidst desolation, very similar to that in Glastonbury the evening before. The Meek Ones had struck again. If it went on, people would stay clear of political meetings. The General Election would become a farce, which was just what the Meek Ones wanted --- or perhaps, whoever had paid for their work had demanded.
The cameras roamed over the scene of destruction, only too familiar in these days when terror stalked in many guises. Then one camera picked up the police helping to get traffic through a particularly badly congested area.
A large black Mercedes-Benz convertible was being held up while a truck passed through, its sides nearly scraping debris. The camera held for a moment on the Mercedes.
At first Tyreen did not see it with the top up, then her eyes caught the face of the passenger in the front seat. There was no doubt as to who it was, for she had studied the photographs with care. There, smiling at his own handiwork, was Father Valentine himself, and in the back, squashed between two heavyset men, she caught sight of a chalk-white, frightened face.
The United States Internal Revenue Service man, Henry Harper, was being held in Scorpio's own car.
She was just able to catch enough of the registration number to memorize it, and even with her phenomenal ability to hold numbers in her head, she found herself repeating it over and over as she reached again for the telephone.
C arrived after dark. Tyreen Mackenzie did not even look at the clock. Time had lost its meaning with the horror played, almost constantly, on the television. She kept reminding herself that this was real, not some Hollywood movie filled with special effects.
C looked old and haggard. Tyreen could not recall a time when her old chief moved and talked like this --- a man suddenly bereft of vigor so that he appeared to have pain in every joint and difficulty with each word he spoke.
He said he had not come alone. "I thought it better to be watched. There's one team in the High Street and another in the Earls Court Road, but none of them know exactly where I am. Boyer is on the corner of the square. I thought it safe to let him come."
"Is anyone safe now?" Tyreen poured him a stiff whiskey while he removed his coat. He tossed it back in one and then put his glass forward for another. This time she made it a smaller measure. She then poured one for herself.
When they were settled, Tyreen began to talk --- setting out her theory built from the strange, drug-assisted interrogation of the man who called himself Abdul el Kadar --- and Joseph in death.
C became very silent, and when the explanation was over he looked up at her with eyes that seemed to mirror every arctic waste, cold sea, or ice pack in the world. "And you believe this?"
"It seems to be the only explanation."
"That a man would hire out people, willing to die at his say-so, acting as human bombs?"
"I presume that's what happened in Chichester, and it certainly occurred in Glastonbury. We all saw it."
C nodded. "Yes. Chichester was the same. A young woman. The attacks take place in the open, so there's no way of screening the crowd. Boyer's been with the Head of Branch and the Metropolitan Commissioner. They're all agreed on an attempt at some form of crowd control during Election walkabouts, but that can never be one hundred percent safe. Mackenzie, how in the name of heaven do we end it?"
"I've no idea, sir. Scorpio, or Valentine, or whatever we call him, appears to have set in motion a complete, self-perpetuating killing machine. Reading between the lines on the interrogation of el Kadar, the Meek Ones live in purity for Scorpio's own satisfaction. The whole basis of a pure, unsullied, moral line is to avoid any sexually transmitted diseases, and to form close unions, one man to one woman. Thinking back, that's another of the Meek Ones' dogmas --- no divorce --- and that makes admirable sense. Once a couple have produced a child, one of the parents, at least, can offer themselves to this revolutionary zeal and kill themselves for the cause, knowing they will have left behind another child who, in due course, can do the same thing."
"Death without end, Amen."
"Quite, sir. They believe they're dying for some great and higher purpose. They will attain paradise, and in the end the world will become a paradise of its own. If Scorpio has this knack --- this charisma --- this fervor and ability to make people believe him, then he's home and dry. There are plenty of bidders in the world of terrorism who can raise the funds and pay huge amounts of money for one act or a whole campaign of terror."
"Unless he's stopped now --- and quickly --- lord knows what will happen." C looked as though the load was too heavy for him to carry. He sighed, and continued. His weariness was that of a man near the end of his tether. "For one thing, we'll be forced to take unpleasant restrictive measures to limit a campaign. No public meetings without a close inspection of every single person who attends: theaters; restaurants; football matches. A whole way of life and freedom ending."
"Then you believe it's a campaign, sir?"
"Oh, it's a campaign without doubt. Terror, and things you don't know about as yet. Either the Meek Ones are mounting their own campaign to demoralize the Election, or their leader is being paid handsomely to do it on the behalf of others."
"Nobody's yet put me in the picture regarding Earthquake."
"Earthquake?" as though he did not even understand.
"It was the signal I received on the way to the Surrey clinic, sir. Remember, you put a team over at Manderson Hall, Pangbourne, to duplicate what I was supposed to do."
"Oh, that. Yes, it is one of the facts you don't know about as yet. We've got six members of the Meek Ones. They're being held in custody on drug charges. Gives us a chance to interrogate them."
She raised an eyebrow. "Meek Ones on drugs charges?"
C gave a long series of little nods. "I put a team of watchers, and a couple of John Bannon's hoods, to keep an eye on the place from four in the morning. Boyer lent me a pair of his plainclothesmen as well. They saw this little group appear at first light. Four men and two women. They were armed and ready to die. A couple of shots were fired when the team went in --- about nine o'clock. It looked as if they were ready for somebody, though they denied it. Said they'd come back for things left behind."
"Goldman was supposed to have gone through the placed with a fine-tooth comb!"
"Well, he missed out. There are a dozen attics at the top of the house --- old servants' quarters, but converted into bedrooms. Under one of the beds the team found a trapdoor. It led to a treasure trove for the drugs squad --- heroin, coke, you name it, they had it."
"Part of the Meek Ones' dogma is no alcohol and no drugs."
"The impression we're getting is that it was not for personal consumption. One of the girls admits to having brought in loads of the muck. The theory is that it was to be used later --- a backup to be distributed free of charge to members of the Armed Services. Like the VC did to the US personnel in Nam."
"What else don't I know about?"
C paused for a few seconds and looked at his wristwatch. "All in good times, Tyreen. Someone else is being brought here. We have a second --- maybe a third --- lead."
"Nothing on the Mercedes in which I saw him? Saw Scorpio and the IRS man?"
"We have the police on alert. You got the number right, we ran through the tape ourselves. I should imagine every copper in the country has his eyes skinned for that vehicle. But, Tyreen..." C seemed to have become avuncular, usually he called her by her first name only when a deniable instruction was coming up. This time the telltale brusqueness was not there in his voice. "Tyreen," he repeated, "even if we get this man Scorpio, how can we be certain we can destroy the whole evil nest he's created?"
"We can't. Not until every last one of them --- every man, woman, and child --- is brought to book. Death is too good for Scorpio --- anyway, I don't believe this eye-for-an-eye business. You know that. I've been in the game too long, and there's something particularly vile about snuffing out life if there's another way." Even though she was an Arion by birth, she had been brought up as a Terran.
"Often there is no other way." C appeared more calm and in control now. "I would say there's probably no other way as far as Scorpio is concerned. His followers? Well, they're a different matter."
"You realize, sir, that even if we can get Scorpio --- and get him alive --- there might be no way to stop his present operation. By now most of the major public appearances of all target politicians during this Election are set. Every newspaper in the country'll have the lists. Anyone can get their hands on the itineraries..."
"We've forestalled some of it," C cut in quickly. "The most important public functions have been shifted around. Heads of C13, C7, D11 --- the whole shooting match, if you'll pardon the pun --- were called in to COBRA. Alterations have been made across the board. The two major political parties have agreed. Different places on different days, and at different times. It's a start, but only a start. Anyone already rolling, on Scorpio's orders, will follow through, I should imagine. The Meek Ones aren't idiots, but they all fall into a particularly vulnerable psychological pattern."
"Such as?" Tyreen had already thought about this. It fascinated her.
"Such as people with political or religious ambivalence --- those not satisfied with the norm. People who want more from religion. The have-nots who believe it's either the current political ideologies --- left and right --- that have caused their plight, or the ones who blame it on God. A new ideal, and a new God, gives them a fresh hope. The business about actually being in at the beginning of it all. Dying for the cause that will do away with their previous predicament --- well, that's heady stuff for folk with chips on their shoulders."
True enough, Tyreen thought. So that was what COBRA had been up to --- reorganizing the Election schedule and getting a lecture from some tame Whitehall shrink. The silence grew between them.
After some three minutes, C spoke again. "I would presume that you consider Scorpio is a sane man?"
"Without a doubt." What was he after now, she wondered. "Evil. A skilled illegal arms dealer. A man with incredible personal magnetism, and a huge financial motive, yes. Sane, yes."
"Mmm." C nodded agreement. "Taking yourself as a sane person, Mackenzie." He had dropped the "Tyreen" and was holding out his glass, tapping it for a refill. "Taking yourself as a sane person, put yourself in Scorpio's shoes. You've proved this great power. You've got one massive contract --- to completely disrupt the British General Election, possibly even more than that --- and the promise of an even larger job it this one works. Say, a similar disruption in the United States, during their next Presidential Election. What would you do? If you'd set things in motion; given all the instructions; what would you do?"
Tyreen had no hesitation. "Get out," she said quietly. "Get out, and get as far away from the British Isles as I could. Then sit and wait."
"Precisely. That's COBRA's reading as well. We've had alerts out at every port and airport --- though I think me lad-o is too clever to go out via a normal route. He's probably got some nice safe exit already arranged."
"Just as he's got someone in a prime position to inform him of exactly what we're up to."
"You still believe that?"
"It's obvious, sir. More obvious than ever when you consider the sleight-of-hand we've tried to get away with. My prime suspects have always been the SAS man, Goldman, and the US IRS man. But there could be more than one. Somebody --- whichever way you look at it --- is one step in front of us." She ticked off the already well-worn items off on her fingers. "One, somebody knew as soon as I was called down from Hereford after Emily Dupré's body was found. Two, Trilby Shepperton turns up with all that muddled riddle, yet we still don't know what the score is. Three, they knew exactly where we've put the IRS man. Four, I tell both Goldman and the taxman that we're going off the Manderson Hall, last refuge of the Meek Ones in this country, when we were really going down to Surrey to interrogate their man caught in the Kilburn thing. I could swear that it put Goldman and Harper on edge, but what happens? Massacre. A foiled attempt at killing the Shepperton girl and pulling their own man out. Somehow they managed to cover both ends --- the business at Manderson Hall, where everyone thought we were going --- the Earthquake team --- and the massacre at the Surrey clinic. Someone had to know. Someone had to inform on us. We should be out searching for him now."
"Witch-hunts rarely help. But, yes, I should imagine you're right --- in a limited sense. Goldman seems the most probably suspect. You say nobody followed you to the Kilburn house; you're also sure Goldman showed surprise at the change of plans. But what if he was simply the stalking horse? The odd clandestine call from him and they get some information; a really good team working on his back. You would all have been followed to Surrey. Or, better still, the trio visiting the Shepperton girl get a message. You thought of that?"
"Can we check?"
C reached for the telephone, dialed, and started a long, low conversation, during which Tyreen tried to readjust, to reassemble the logic of the thing.
At last C put the telephone down and stared at Tyreen. "Should've thought of that sooner. The one posing as the Shepperton girl's brother took a private call about fifteen minutes before you arrived. The poor fellow on reception logged it, and nobody thought of filleting the record."
Tyreen had just about crystallized her thoughts. She opened her mouth to speak, when the telephone rang again. Three times, then stop. Another twice, and stop. On the third set of rings, C picked up. There was another low-key conversation. When he put the instrument down this time, he glared at her. "They've found the Mercedes," he said without either exuberance or enthusiasm. "In a ditch, covered with bits of tree and leaves. Just off a B road in Kent. Really out of the way. Only it's just five miles from an old landing field."
"When?" Tyreen asked, meaning when had the car been found.
"Accidentally, about an hour ago. Shouldn't really have been discovered for a day or two. Road's not much used, but some farmer with too much drink in him was on autopilot, sneaking home. Went a shade too far to the left and dented his nice Range Rover. Not badly, but enough to get the local garage out to pull him from the ditch. Pure good luck. The local Bobby was filling up his patrol car when the call came in. He went along."
"And the airfield?"
C nodded sadly. "You've got it, Mackenzie. A plane in the night. Unusual around there. Place is just a single airstrip. No buildings. No control. No night flying, though the runway's in reasonable condition. Wartime, of course. Used to be a satellite field for Manston. Still is, in a way. Some local flying school uses it for their pupils to practice rollers." He meant roller landings, what in wartime the Royal Air Force referred to as "circuits and bumps."
"And something went out of their tonight?"
C nodded. "Again convenient. Member of the local club lives just the other side of the place. Late afternoon a nice little Piper Comanche --- twin-engined..."
"Seats six at a pinch."
"This one did. Anyway, getting dusk and it comes in with one engine out. Our flying club man trots out to see if he can give a hand. Says the pilot's a nice guy. Off to France. Engine problem. Needs some spare. Borrows the club man's phone. Calls somebody to bring over a spare first thing and refuses food and shelter. 'Have to stay with the aircraft,' all that kind of thing. Then, tonight, off she goes. Flying club fellow almost has a heart attack. Must have taken off blind."
"So he's gone?"
"That's what I'd say. You?"
"Quite likely." Tyreen continued. She had thought the whole thing through, and her conclusions were worrying. "What if Emily Dupré was allowed to get away?" she asked. "And what if my telephone number was planted?"
C cocked an eyebrow, as though he had already made up his mind that her theory --- whatever it was --- consisted of garbage. "Go on," he said, though behind the instruction you could hear that he was dubious.
To start with, the first thing Tyreen could not get into her head was the "why me?" factor. "I've puzzled for a long time about why was I picked up by a belligerent surveillance team on the way down to London. It's really only just struck me."
She said that if Emily had been intentionally allowed loose with the telephone number in her Filofax, it could be for only one reason. "If Scorpio, and those working with his Meek Ones, were about to start this horrifying campaign, they needed to be sure of information reaching them from the inside. They needed to be one step ahead of any action that was taken. Therefore, sir, Emily's Filofax, with its one telephone number, was a personal lure --- that's been clear all along. She might not even have meant to die. But she did. To Scorpo it didn't matter either way. Once my number was identified, I would become involved. If I am lured to be involved, then our Service would be involved. Add those together and the algebra's easy. It all equals a penetration agent --- one who can report straight back to Scorpio, or his nominee --- who is close to our Service, or can become close to it and me --- or woever's on the operation. QED. As m'tutor used to say, 'Quite Easily Done.' "
"There's sense in it, I'll admit." C scowled. He had been glancing constantly at his watch as Tyreen spoke. "Scorpio had to lure us in, because he had someone close. Someone with your ear or, come to that, my ear."
"Either. Or someone who could easily gain access to us."
"Mmm." C grunted. He was becoming agitated about the time. He rose and went to the window, cautioning Tyreen to switch off the two small student lamps throwing their soft greenish light over the room.
He twitched carefully at the curtain, taking a cautious peek outside, standing very still for a moment. Then --- "Ah, at last."
There was the sound of a car parking outside. He told her to hold the lights until their visitor was inside, then he went to the door. There were quiet voices and the shuffling of feet. "Right, let there be light." C was being melodramatic about the whole thing.
There, just inside the doorway, was John Bannon. He held a black-haired woman.
Tyreen was on her feet immediately, recognizing the woman despite the tight black bandage covering her eyes. Tyreen's head was on a swivel, giving each man a sharp, accusing glare.
Bannon quickly started to remove the bandage as Tyreen advanced on him.
"I'm sorry," C purred, "but she isn't in the magic circle which has need-to-know of this place. Hence the cloak-and-dagger stuff."
The woman blinked, allowing her eyes to become accustomed to the subdued light. "Hallo, Tyreen," Chirren said brightly, embracing her daughter. "I should have known it was you I had to brief. Who else would be so hidden away where she couldn't get to the male population of London?"
Tyreen was not quite so easily put off. "Did John treat you properly?"
"Not really," her mother responded, breaking off the embrace and giving the man behind her a dirty leer. "All he did was bring me here."
"Just take a seat and get on with the explanation," C told her.
They sat close, on two high-backed leather chairs and a small settee. From her bag, Chirren drew one of the Avante Carte pieces of plastic. "We haven't completed testing it yet," she began, "but, so far, this innocent-looking thing appears to have the powers of a sorcerer."
She then launched into a long lecture about "smart cards" and the way they worked --- magnetic strips built into the cards that would pour information into a particular type of computer workstation and so glean more information --- shown up on the workstation screen --- from larger databanks.
A lot of what she said was highly technical and dealt mainly with the type of credit card that allowed you to draw fixed amounts of money from a bank dispensing machine --- spitting your card out if you did not have the funds to meet the amount.
"You know, of course," she went on, "that certain cards will do more than just get you a few pounds when the bank's closed. They will give you an update on the status of your account, and, in certain cases, you can also put money into your account by using the card."
She paused, holding the Avante Carte between thumb and index finger. "This little beauty is different. The one here belonged to Trilby Shepperton, and we'll be taking it apart tomorrow. We've dismantled the Emily Dupré card, and that's already given up a lot of secrets. The so-called Avante Carte is probably the most sophisticated smart card I've ever come across. You see, not only does it contain magnetic strips, but also tiny slivers of memory --- what the computer people call ROM --- Read Only Memory, and also RAM --- Random Access Memory. This means that the card will act as a small computer. It can be especially programmed to do a specific job, and its most sinister feature is an input-output chip."
She could see C's eyes starting to glaze, and he had already heard it, so she quickly came to the point. "I'll just tell you the tasks that this card can do. Whether it is designed to do them we have yet to discover. First, it can gain the attention of the mainframe computers of all known British clearing banks, simply by inserting it into an electronic cash-dispensing machine and keying in a sequence of numbers. Think what that means. You can talk to the records of all the major British banks. In turn, it means that you can bypass those records and manipulate them. The most obvious criminal aspect is that, in theory, if your card is properly programmed by a master computer, and if you know a wealthy institution's account numbers, it is possible to remove money electronically --- through a cash dispenser --- from the wealthy account to your own or another designated account." She waved the card in front of her face. "The rest is obvious."
"You mean you can bankrupt someone or make yourself a millionaire for a day."
"Probably for long enough to get your hands on the cash." She flicked the card with a manicured fingernail. "This is a very dirty piece of electronics. Its criminal and intelligence potential is enormous."
"So what's it been used for to date?" Tyreen asked, and Chirren gave C an "am-I-allowed-to-tell-her?" look. No matter how old she got, Tyreen was still Chirren's little daughter.
C nodded.
"The interesting thing is that Trilby Shepperton's card has never been used. But we think she has been used --- to glean the numbers of her father's main accounts."
"They've been pinching Lord Shepperton's cash?"
"Not quite, Tyreen," John Bannon answered. By one of those odd coincidences that rarely happen in fiction but often do in real life, old Robert Shepperton took a look at a deposit account that's been sitting idle for a couple of years. Just sitting there collecting interest. Not huge, but not to be sneezed at. In fact it's an account earmarked in his will for Trilby herself. This morning he asked for the balance --- which should have been around £200,000. When he heard what was there he asked them to recheck it. They did, and it was accurate. An account which should show a couple of hundred grand know contains nearly three million, sterling."
"And it's all been put in within the last week, electronically," C added. "You see the point, Mackenzie?"
She nodded. "Yes, someone, if it becomes necessary, will move that money into an even more sensitive account. It will become some sort of well-hidden slush fund for Shepperton's political party."
"That's it, Mackenzie. On the button. And at the right moment, the press --- at least the gutter press --- will get true copies of various electronic transactions. The present government, trying to gain yet another term of power, will be involved in a British version of Watergate."
"But with everything else going for them..." Tyreen blurted, then caught C's eye and closed her mouth.
They continued to talk for another hour or so, after which C said it was time to go. Chirren was blindfolded again and led out to the car by John Bannon, while C loitered in the house. "What I want you to do is lie low here tonight. At least you'll be safe." He lowered his voice again as though there was still a chance of them being overheard. "Tomorrow's another day. I have most of the European Services --- those I can trust anyway --- on the qui vive for friend Scorpio. I would hope to have more information by the afternoon. Call me at two minutes past the hour, every hour after midday. I hope to be able to point you towards Scorpio by then." He gave her a sidelong look, "Of course, if you get any new leads yourself, don't hesitate. Follow up. Try to let us know. But remember, Tyreen, I want this business settled no matter what it costs, and it's up to you. Keep it in mind. The rule of law and every Englishman's way of life rests on our success, as, I suspect, do a very large number of innocent lives."
When Tyreen was left alone, she went into the long, narrow kitchen, cooked herself an omelette aux fines herbes, which she washed down with most of a reasonable bottle of Chablis --- though, with some amusement, she realized that Mrs. Fairfax probably got her wine for the house in bulk from the supermarket. Nothing wrong with that, she told herself, though it would have been nice if someone had warned her. Constant exposure to that kind of bottle could damage the palate.
What would Henry Harper think of the wine?
Now why had she asked herself that? What did she care?
The kid was apparently Scorpio's prisoner and she did want to free him, but was there something more?
Okay, so the kid was cute, and good on his feet. He obviously found her desirable, but as an Arion she was used to that reaction from Terran men. He might be a good diversion, he might even be fun, but once this mess was over she'd go back to her job and he'd go back to the States and his job. It wasn't as if she was looking to get into a relationship.
Not a long-term relationship. Not with a Terran man. Her mother and stepfather had made it work, she knew it would never work for her. Her own all-too-short marriage had taught her that.
Looking back, she realized that she probably had encouraged him a little more than was necessary. Was she feeling guilt over that?
Finally she checked all the locks and alarms, finished off the Chablis anyway and had a final cigarette, took a shower, and, still naked, climbed into the large double bed that was the centerpiece of the main bedroom. Desperately tired though she was, she lay on her back for a while, turning the day's events over in her mind before eventually sliding into deep and easy sleep.
She didn't know what woke her, but her eyes snapped open, and she moved, as though in sleep, to slip her hand under the pillow for the pistol she had placed there on going to bed. She could see the red glow of the clock alarm reading out the time --- 05:09.
Then she froze. The pistol was not there, and she knew that, against all possibilities, there was someone else in the room.
Slowly she moved her legs, positioning herself to spring once her eyes had adjusted to the darkness. But she was too late. With no warning, a rough hand clamped itself over her mouth, the fingers splayed to hold her head down, and a body stretched hard over her thighs, making any further movement difficult. The assailant was immensely strong, at least for a Terran.
She slowly tensed herself, ready to use her Arion strength. Then she froze, all thoughts of struggle forgotten as she felt the cold steel against her temple. A bullet would tear through her Arion skull just as easily as through any Terran's.
