Implosion, page 2
“DGI?”
“Director General, Intelligence. He set his hounds on this Pavel fellow’s trail—now code-named GAYBIRD. Soon tracked him, too.”
“It doesn’t seem likely he would be anything to do with it,” objected Bart, “he’d hardly publish his results.”
“I thought that. DGI says that it looks as if GAYBIRD didn’t realize exactly what he was on to at the time. Remember that was back in 1966. We’ve done a big check, and it’s certain he’s published nothing since. No, I’ve a shrewd suspicion he’s our man.”
“But why?”
“He’s the chief research worker at a certain Karl Marx Institute, his country’s sole contribution to science, and their chief prestige object—they can’t afford an airline. Now; this is the point. We’ve quite a file on that little lot’s Premier-cum-Party-Chairman. The story goes that he is the illegitimate son of a British diplomat who left his mother in the lurch. Sounds too good to be true, but true or not, he is a dedicated Anglophobe. That at least is certain.”
“But surely, Prime Minister—George—you’re not suggesting that a senior statesman is going to let personal animosity—no! It’s all far too tenuous!”
“It gets less tenuous as we go on.” The Premier produced a pipe and pouch from his jacket, and dropped the coat once more on the floor. “All the evidence points to the attack being made in late autumn of 1971—it was around April ’72 we first began to smell a rat—and in January ‘72 GAYBIRD was made a Hero of Socialist Labor, Third Class. These people are a damned sight more class-conscious than we are, very careful about the rules. It’s not surprising he got a gong, but we’re convinced it was more than was reasonable. Should have been Fourth Class. He jumped a grade. Why?”
Bart had no answer to that. “What does this institute do?”
“I was coming to that. They’ve been solely concerned with agriculture. National showpiece—and God knows they need all the science they can get in their farming. Anyone fool enough to go there on a ‘cultural’ visit is always dragged round the place. Always been wide open, but about six months ago burglar alarms were put in, bars fitted to ground-floor windows, and the two side entrances have been sealed up. They’ve also installed a plainclothes guard in the only entrance. Agriculture!”
Bart was silent.
“Right, it’s not proof, but there’s not a vestige of evidence against anyone else. As far as I’m concerned, it’s enough to be going on with. I’ve ordered DGI to take a closer look at friend GAYBIRD!”
3
On the fourth floor of that garagelike building—inside and out—the Ministry of Defense, DGI was making a very private phone call, dialing the number himself.
“I want HADRIAN.” This being the correct codeword for the day, he was connected without comment.
“HADRIAN? This is COMPASS THREE.” DGI waited while HADRIAN checked the daily changing list to see who was calling him. It might be the Prime Minister, the Minister of Defense, one or two others. He was invited to continue.
“PROLIX-GAYBIRD. Could look at this situation in some detail please? As soon as convenient.”
HADRIAN said yes in a stolid sort of way, and that was that. For a moment DGI mused upon the identity of HADRIAN. They had never met—so far as he knew. On appointment each DGI received a black book and certain verbal instructions. And that gave him more contact than most with the Secret Service.
HADRIAN did not waste much time. Within half an hour a message was on its way:
GROUP WEST FROM CENTRAL
IMMEDIATE TOPSEC
GAYBIRD INVESTIGATE URGENTLY
For forty-eight hours Group West worked very hard on GAYBIRD and his background. He was photographed, his height, probable weight, color of eyes, hair noted. His professional record worked over, his hobbies discovered and his sex life checked.
Time being short, some unprofessional risks were taken. The comrade charlady who did for their subject in his bachelor flat was charmed by the young building inspector—even made him coffee. She would have been less charmed to know that while she was thus engaged he was taking an impression of her key to the flat, carelessly left by her on the hall table, and had time to plant micro-bugs in the lounge and bedroom. Further, on the pretext of examining a windowsill, he fixed a slow-running sound-actuated tape recorder to the underside of the sill. His only worry was if the suction cups on the recorder would stick to the stonework, and they did. The friendly help was not to know that next day, when she left after her morning stint, he would let himself into the flat, remove his gear, search and photograph the apartment and be on his way before she reached her more humble abode a mile or so away.
At the end of the forty-eight hours Group West had quite a file on their subject. Much of it was quite useless, but
CENTRAL FROM GROUP WEST TOPSEC GAYBIRD PROMOTED TOP EXPERIMENTAL POSITION BIG PAY RISE NEW FLAT JAN 1971 LAST KNOWN WORK IN 1969 ON INSECTICIDES ALL LATER WORK SECRET HAS CONGRATULATORY LETTER FROM PARTY CHAIRMAN APRIL 71 REASON FOR CONGRATULATIONS NOT STATED IN LETTER
That was enough for the Premier. Three hours after receipt of the message another order was on the way:
GROUP WEST FROM CENTRAL
FLASH TOPSEC
GAYBIRD INTERROGATE TO FINALITY
Even in the secrecy of his world, that was one message HADRIAN had to code himself. Death warrants are always special.
Outside the Karl Marx Institute agent EMIL cursed softly. GAYBIRD was working unusually late, and it was raining. The traffic, never heavy by Western standards, was getting less and less, the clanking trams fewer, and EMIL was beginning to feel conspicuous. There were too many chances being taken on this job for his liking—why all this interest in a lousy insect-chaser? For the twentieth time he pressed the transmit switch in the sodden pocket of his cheap raincoat and breathed into the lapel microphone. He had to steer the snatch car onto GAYBIRD. There had been little time to study the habits of their quarry, and he might easily go left or right on leaving the Institute. A tram came clanging to the nearby stop. Automatically EMIL watched the few passengers get off. His cover was that he was waiting for a girl. He glanced ostentatiously at his watch, hoping he was not overacting. He had a nasty suspicion one shoe was leaking. …
The Institute door opened. Silhouetted against the light was GAYBIRD’S tall spare figure. EMIL whistled softly into his microphone. One long note meant the quarry was alone.
GAYBIRD hesitated in the face of the rain, then walked down the steps and turned right. EMIL whistled the series of shorts that indicated direction to the car two blocks away. His job was finished.
A car power-drifted round the corner, its cloud of spray brilliant in the light of a tram. The headlights flicked on, picking out the figure of the hurrying scientist, crouched against the rain, in blazing yellow light. GAYBIRD half turned as the car mounted the pavement … the body arched into the air, the arms spread out grotesquely as it crashed down on the bonnet, to be swept off as the car swerved away, bumping violently off the pavement.
EMIL screamed silently between clenched teeth. “The fools! The raving bleeding fools!” Self-preservation intervened, he turned, now glad of the rain, and began to walk not too quickly away. He was aware of another car accelerating …
“Bloody nuisance!” said the Prime Minister. “Hit-and-run. Any chance it was an accident?”
“No.” DGI shook his head. “Someone guessed, and put him out of the way. Hit-and-runs happen all the time, but I don’t recall two cars hitting the same man. They really made a job of him.”
“Well, whatever they may have concealed, I’m convinced we know the guilty parties now. I want every,” the Premier stressed the last word, “every effort made to find out what they have used. Stop at nothing, even if we compromise our whole intelligence net in the area—and diplomatic relations.” He looked squarely at the DGI. “You have my full authority.”
Next morning a sad-faced man set out from Gatwick for what must surely have been one of the most extraordinary operations in the history of espionage. That same day another man left the calm of his Midland University for the same destination. A third began packing an overnight bag in Vienna.
4
Like all good plans, it was simple. The Institute, for all the recent precautions, was not, by modern standards, a high security zone. But the Director and the local Security Chief, whose main work hitherto had been tracking slogan painters, were satisfied. Communist or capitalist, it was a natural backwater, unused to the icy blasts of the cold war.
The sad-faced visitor, codename WARREN, was well aware of this, and was banking on it. Neither he nor the two men he was to meet had any local record—two of them had never even visited the country before. Their hosts, the British intelligence organization, were solely responsible for providing a rendezvous for them and a general briefing. Apart from that the local men were busy building cast-iron alibis for the next few days—or quietly leaving the country.
The three met, and for twenty-four hours studied their problem with great care. WARREN was, in essence, a specialist in single-mindedness. GRIGOR from Vienna was a safe and motor-car expert. MAXI’S contribution was languages. All three had the basic qualifications of their Service: good training, a fair amount of courage, quick brains and no qualms.
The operation began as the first members of the Institute left in the evening. The short southern twilight was just perceptible as WARREN slowly strolled up, carefully counting the staff as they left. At the same time the hardest part of the whole operation was being completed by GRIGOR. He had to steal a car and leave it at a predetermined point. It was not as difficult as he had expected. As he walked briskly along to join WARREN, MAXI dressed in dungarees and carrying a window-cleaner’s ladder—also stolen—approached from the other end of the broad street. The timing was perfect. As WARREN walked slowly up the steps to the front door, MAXI boldly placed the ladder against the front wall and without any attempt at concealment, cut the telephone wires. By the time the door was open he was down the ladder and carrying it toward the entrance.
WARREN flashed an official-looking pass at the guard, who did not recognize it, but the visitor had an air … WARREN tripped on the threshold, pushing the guard back as he regained his balance. It was neatly executed. To an onlooker there was nothing sinister in it, more like an episode from the Keystone Cops. WARREN stumbling, GRIGOR pushed from behind by MAXI’S ladder, and all of them propelled into the hall. The guard shouted at MAXI, who shouted back. In the general confusion two fortunate members of the staff crossed the hall and left, smiling at the odd tableau. The second duty guard moved across to deal with the “window cleaner”—who had pushed the door shut behind the last two to leave with the base of his ladder. The guard had not taken more than two steps when WARREN shot him through the heart with a silenced automatic. The man spun round with the force of the bullet and collapsed twitching on the marble floor.
MAXI spoke to the first guard. “You will die too if you disobey. We want the Director—now!”
There was a faint smell of cordite; the shot man’s boots scraped feebly on the floor and were still.
The shaken guard stared for a moment at his dead comrade. His gaze traveled to WARREN who had pocketed his gun, but the very stillness of his arm gave added menace to his steady, passionless stare.
WARREN and MAXI followed the dazed guard. GRIGOR dragged the body into a corner, its progress across the white marble recorded by a thin smear of blood. GRIGOR carefully selected a chair, produced a large and silenced Luger from a shoulder holster and sat with it in his lap, under his hat.
The Director’s face was a riot of emotion. Anger at their unceremonious entry gave way to amazement, blended with fear.
MAXI’S tone was cold yet conversational. “We’ve just shot one guard, we’re prepared to shoot you. Obey, and you will live. We want all the papers you have on this drug of Pavel’s.”
Both the intruders noted the Director’s involuntary glance toward an ancient monster safe.
“Yes, you can open that, for a start!”
“I don’t know what you mean!”
Without appearing to move, WARREN shot the second guard in the knee. The explosion was scarcely louder than a cork popping. The unlucky man crashed to the floor, moaning. Soon he would be screaming. With unhurried ease WARREN produced a pad from his pocket and rammed it over the man’s face. The strong sweet smell of chloroform filled the room.
“Now perhaps you understand. Your help will only save time, for we will get what we want, whether you are alive or dead.”
“You cannot do this—”
“You’ve five seconds,” said MAXI calmly, “then I nod to my friend.”
MAXI’S cool dispassionate manner did as much to convince the Director as the sight of WARREN. The Director fumbled in his desk, his hand shook uncontrollably. He produced a key ring and lumbered unsteadily to the safe. As the ponderous door sighed open, WARREN acted. His right arm encircled the Director’s neck, his left hand pressed the chloroform pad hard on the man’s face.
In another thirty seconds WARREN was sweeping the contents of the safe into a nylon shopping bag. MAXI did the same to the desk. WARREN added the Director’s wallet to his collection, then handed his incongruous bag to MAXI and nodded at the door. As MAXI left, WARREN produced a ready-filled hypodermic, the needle protected with a cork. With no hesitation he stabbed the needle into the Director’s arm, giving him an intramuscular 2 cc. shot of deep sleep. The guard was served in the same way.
In the hall WARREN found GRIGOR standing casual guard over two very frightened lab assistants. The chloroform/hypodermic routine soon settled their immediate problems. GRIGOR thoughtfully made them reasonably comfortable, out of sight of the door. WARREN glanced round, paused, then nodded. They shut the front door very quietly.
Walking unhurriedly to the car, WARREN glanced at his watch. From start to finish the operation had taken five and a half minutes. There was, he reflected, time to catch the night flight to Vienna. He was looking forward to using his U.S. diplomatic passport. It was such a beautiful forgery.
The fact that there had been a raid at all was not discovered until the relief guards arrived three hours later. Even then little could be gleaned, since none of the drugged men recovered for another four hours. By which time, literally, the raiders had flown the country.
In London the documents were quickly translated, duplicated and distributed to the centers already working on the drug. Curiously, GAYBIRD’S final formula was not among the data captured, but there was enough in his lab journal to enable two laboratories independently to synthesize the drug at practically the same moment. The item in the journal that really staggered the chemists was the minute dosage regarded as effective. There was no doubt that the merest trace added to water supplies—the journal suggested this vector—would be sufficient. Routine purity tests would never show it. All the PROLIX Committee, who had worked into the early hours of the morning, were convinced that they had completed their task. At eight A.M. Perranwell informed the Prime Minister of their findings. At once he called a full Cabinet meeting for ten.
“Gentlemen, we know who did it and what did it. I’ve already ordered this morning that all suitable medical research facilities are to concentrate on the search for a cure or antidote.” He looked inquiringly at Bart, who nodded. There had been some very hard talking done in his Ministry that morning. The Premier went on.
“It’s too early to say much, but the PROLIX Committee’s report is not very hopeful. Certainly the stuff works, that’s self-evident, but I’m told that, like aspirin, they have no idea how it works. Until this is solved, there is little prospect of a cure. Anyway, I know Bart will see that nothing stands in the way of this vital project. That is all we can do. I want to turn now to another aspect of this crisis: retaliation.”
The Minister of Science, a devout Christian and a staunch pacifist, stirred uneasily in his seat and looked across at Bart. The Premier noted the unspoken protest.
“No, Devoran. Your beliefs, I’m sure, do you credit, but you are in a minority. I can assure you I’m not merely seeking revenge. I’m fully aware that this is a profitless—and dangerous—emotion. But retaliate we must, partly to satisfy the nation—and there are other reasons which I prefer not to discuss at this time. The people know we have been maimed, crippled to a degree that we do not even now fully comprehend. No one in his right mind can suggest we let the crazy maniacal action of a few men go—”
“I quite agree,” said Devoran, “but surely we ought to arraign them before world opinion, raise the matter in the United—”
“No! By Christ! No!” The Minister of Defense slammed his hand hard on the table. “We weren’t elected to fumble around like the last lot! The nation wants positive action, not paper resolutions. Good God! Have we sunk so low we have to get the approval of Monaco, Costa Rica and similar superpowers before we defend ourselves?”
There was a general murmur of agreement. Bart caught the eye of the Premier, who nodded.
“We mustn’t let ourselves be carried away,” said Bart quietly. “I’m not denying the call for action. I sympathize, but can we afford it? As I see it, this drug induces sterility, for how long we do not know. Incredibly—there’s no other word for it—our water supply was doctored. Why, is, I think, relatively unimportant. What we must do is to concentrate all our energy—”
“Hold on, John,” cut in the Prime Minister. “Why is not so unimportant as you think. You’re too parochial in your view. We of the Defense Committee find nothing incredible in this attack. In the world today, size is the thing that counts. A China of ten million would worry no one. It’s the other six hundred and ninety million that has us scared. We consider this attack was—is—designed to destroy NATO and the very real prospect of a United States of Europe. Once it is known that the UK, now sixty million strong, will be down to twenty million or less in the next thirty years …” There was no need to go on. The Premier began filling his pipe. “I must add we are convinced this attack has been made without any backing or the knowledge of the USSR. It’s the action of a fanatical Anglophobe and a few men.”
