The Power Bug, page 1
The Power Bug
Geoffrey Osborne
© Geoffrey Osborne 1999
Geoffrey Osborne has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1968 by Robert Hale Ltd.
This edition published in 2017 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
For my wife, Dorothy
without whose help and encouragement this book would never have been written.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter One
“Need assistance. Urgent! Urgent!” the message had said.
Peking had ordered Nang Fat-soo to Rangoon immediately to make contact with their local agent and give any help necessary; London and Washington, who had monitored the message, sent their agents to find out why the Chinese were in a flap.
Nang knew there was a danger of this. But he didn’t realise that the West were on to him personally.
He was unaware that he’d been uncovered as a Communist agent when he was in Indonesia; that American Intelligence had a photograph of him.
He didn’t know that John S. Blakey, seated two tables away, was a C.I.A. man; that Blakey had recognised him; that the man eating with the American was a British agent.
Even so, Nang was unlucky. Because it was pure coincidence that the three men had registered at the same hotel.
It had been embarrassing for Blakey and the Englishman, James Dingle, when the waiter had shown the latter to Blakey’s table and suggested that they might like to share.
They knew each other at once; they had met briefly some years ago when their respective organisations had co-operated on a job in Berlin.
The fans in the ceiling revolved lazily; the waiters padded softly between the tables as the breakfast cutlery chinked and clinked soothingly. Nang felt secure. Later he would meet his contact.
Blakey and Dingle were fencing, each trying to find out how much the other knew; each pretending he knew more than he did.
A waiter approached. “Mr. Dingle, sir? A cablegram for you,” he said.
“Thank you.” He tipped the waiter and tore open the envelope.
“Got a lead?” asked Blakey.
“Could be,” replied Dingle.
“Look,” said the American, “why don’t we work together — up to a point, anyway. Pool our knowledge. After all, we are more or less on the same side.”
“All right,” the other agreed. “I’ll tell you all I know. You know about the radio call from here to Peking?”
“Check.”
“Well all I know apart from that is that I’ve just got this cable telling me to call on a Mr. Jones at an oil refinery near here.” He grinned. “I’m a machinery salesman, you know. Do a lot of business with oil companies.”
The American looked crestfallen. “Is that all you know?”
“Yes. Your turn now.” He beamed.
“Well I can’t add anything really. But I think I’ve got a better lead. See that Chinese guy over there? Two tables behind me.”
The Englishman peered round Blakey’s shoulder. “That little chap. Yes, I can just about see him. He’s hiding behind the tea pot. Tiny, isn’t he?”
“That’s Nang Fat-soo,” the other informed him. “Mean anything to you?”
“No… but he doesn’t match his name, does he?”
“Don’t be fooled by his size,” said Blakey. “He’s dangerous. A Mao man. It’s my guess that he’s been sent to reinforce the bod that sent the S.O.S. to Peking, so if I follow him… ”
He broke off as Nang got up and walked towards the door. They both watched him.
A thin, small man — no more than five feet four inches tall — his hands seemed abnormally large for his size. But it was his walk that attracted most attention; a curious, spring-inheel action which made his head bob up and down as if he was trying to make himself look taller by jumping. This, coupled with the fact that he was pigeon-toed made him an almost comical figure; until you saw his face. A scar on the left side of his jaw pulled the mouth downwards into a sneer; his sunken cheeks were pock-marked; his eyes, large and not as slanting as one would expect for a Chinese, were dark and completely expressionless.
“Well, there goes fatso,” said Blakey, rising. “See you tonight, Dingle. We’ll compare notes.”
Dingle watched him go. Of medium build, Blakey walked with that loose-hipped, bottom-waggling gait common to many American G.I.s. His pleasant snub-nosed face, smiling mouth and blue eyes gave him a youthful appearance which w;is contradicted by the beginnings of a double chin and balding head. His skin was tanned a dull yellow, the result of too many years in South-East Asia.
Everyone else seems to be busy, Dingle thought to himself. I’d better go and see Jones the Oil.
As he prepared to leave, he reflected that it was nice to lind out so quickly who the opposition were; at least, some of them. But the Russians were unlikely to be left out of a party like this. So where the hell were they?
The point worried him.
*
Ranjit was worried, too. He was the resident Russian agent, and he had just heard that he would be on his own. He would be in charge of the operation at his end. Not that he doubted his ability to carry it through. But it would be tricky. And dangerous.
Ranjit had been working for the Russians for some years. The services he had rendered so far had been modest, but this was big; and he had his orders.
He pressed the intercom on his desk, and a metallic voice answered. Ranjit’s instructions were clear and concise; his light, well-modulated voice held only a suspicion of an Indian accent.
“I want Mr. Meyer, Mr. Lucas, Mr. Kadar and Mr. Nadzir to report to me here as soon as possible, Miss Lee. They will be at the airstrip. I want to see them all together.”
Miss Lee’s acknowledgement was cut short as he snapped up the switch and leaned back in his chair, smiling. It pleased him that he had beaten her race at their own game… business.
Most of the local trade was controlled by the Chinese; good, law-abiding citizens in the main, but Ranjit resented their success. They, for their part, largely ignored Ranjit, and this made him resent them even more.
He could not get on with them; which was strange, because Ranjit had made it his business to get on well with people and, as a result, his business had prospered.
As a youth, before the war, when he started Ranjit (Rangoon) Transport with a handcart, he got on well with the British.
When the Japanese arrived he got on well with them, too, although none of those who could have testified to this had lived to do so.
His cordial relationship with the British was resumed when they returned to chase the Japanese out; later, Ranjit’s relationship with the leaders behind the Communist terrorists in the Malayan jungles had been equally cordial. He had been useful to them, running arms down through Burma.
In 1952 he acquired his first aircraft. Two years later he bought his first coaster, and Ranjit (Rangoon) Transport became Sky Sea (Burma) Enterprises. By 1967 he had two aircraft, two ships, several river craft and a prosperous business which acted as a cover for even more profitable sidelines. Ranjit traded in anything, from sennapods to secrets.
His fingers tattoed impatiently on the desk as he waited for the four men to arrive.
*
Kadar and Nadzir sat facing Ranjit across the desk, slightly to his left. They sat close together, Kadar on the left; like heavenly twins who, even on the ground, were conscious of their positions… pilot and co-pilot.
They looked remarkably alike. Slightly built, pale olive complexions, hollow cheeks; the Kadarvorous Characters, Lucas called them.
He and Meyer were seated slightly to Ranjit’s right, but they did not sit so close together as the other pair. Meyer had bad breath.
Meyer was a big, strong-looking man with thick black hair, thick lips and a dead-pan expression. He was Lucas’s co-pilot, and they crewed Ranjit’s second aircraft.
In contrast to Meyer, Lucas was of medium build. But there was strength in his deep chest and wide shoulders. His good looking, regular features were marred by a suggestion of ill-temper. He had a shock of hair which had once been bright ginger but was now beginning to fade. He was speaking to Ranjit.
“Bugs?” he said incredulously.
“Yes, bugs,” replied Ranjit.
“You mean bugs can change paraffin into a high-grade oil? What do they bloody do? Eat it and pee it out again as jet fuel? Pull the other one.”
Ranjit, who had educated himself sufficiently well to consider himself a gentleman, grimaced distastefully.
“The mechanics of the process don’t concern us.”
“Sounds as queer as a belly dancer with two left tits to me,” said Lucas.
“I don’t care what it sounds like to you, Lucas. I’ve spent years building up the organisation out here. The four of you were assigned to me by headquarters to carry out my orders. And your orders are to deliver the oil scientist, Avery, and his process to Russia.”
Meyer spoke with a heavy European accent: “We do not quarrel with that. But we think you
“It is Nadzir and I who will be taking most of the risks,” said Kadar. “It is a bold plan; it is possible, and we’re willing…”
Meyer interrupted: “Possible, yes; willing yes. But if anything went wrong up there…”
“There will be no talk of failure,” Ranjit broke in angrily.
“But there must be an easier way,” protested Lucas.
“There is,” snapped Ranjit. “It was all arranged to ship Avery out to Andaman Islands and have him picked up by a Russian submarine. But the fool suffers from claustrophobia and refuses to travel that way.
“My orders are to get Avery and his process to Russia without jeopardising my organisation here. There isn’t much time because there has been a leak somewhere. Western and Chinese agents are already snooping around — so be careful. My plan is the best one under the circumstances. Avery is already on his way to rendezvous with you. So if you have any more queries about my competence to plan this operation…?” Ranjit looked at Lucas.
“Sorry I spoke,” murmured the pilot.
Kadar looked worried. “How have the Chinese and the West got on to it?” he asked.
“That,” replied Ranjit, “is something I intend to find out. It needn’t concern you. Just get ready for this job, and remember everything I’ve told you.”
*
The four fliers trooped out. Lucas was last, and he closed Ranjit’s door. Miss Lee, who was busy at a filing cabinet, looked up as the men crossed her office to the outer door.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” she said. Her voice was a shade too high-pitched, but clear and fresh. She was pleasant to listen to; and even more pleasant to look at.
Kadar and Nadzir were already outside. If they had heard her they made no reply. Meyer paused, nodded to her without smiling, and went out.
“Cheerful lot, aren’t you,” she said.
Lucas smiled. He’d always been interested in Miss Lee, but never seemed to be able to get anywhere with her.
“You’ll have to excuse them,” he said. “The boss has just knocked a nail in the Kadarvorous Characters’ coffins. And Meyer just doesn’t appreciate beauty.”
Miss Lee neatly sidestepped to take her shapely bottom out of range of Lucas’ right hand, which was loitering with intent. She crossed to her desk and sat down.
“I do, though,” he said.
“You do what?”
“Appreciate beauty.”
Lucas bent swiftly and kissed her on the mouth.
She didn’t move. “Good morning Mr. Lucas,” she said icily.
He sat on the corner of her desk. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Never been kissed before.”
“Not in office hours,” she replied coolly. “Now, will you please leave. I have work to do.”
“I’m glad someone has,” he said. “Kadar and Nadzir have just got the sack.”
“Is that what he wanted to see you about?”
“Yes. Given them three months’ notice.”
“Why them and not you?” she asked unkindly.
“Well I am the chief pilot… but I expect my turn will come. He says the sky bit of Sky Sea Enterprises isn’t doing so well.”
Miss Lee was contrite: “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. It was rude of me.”
“You can make up for it,” he said.
“How?”
“By coming out with me tonight. If you don’t like being kissed during office hours, we’ll try it after office hours.” Miss Lee laughed. They were kissing when Meyer looked in. “Are you coming or not?” he growled at Lucas.
*
Jones the Oil was indeed a Welshman; and he was oily. From his shiny, black, cream-slicked hair to his greasy smile and smoothly-lubricated walk, he was all smarm.
“I’m in charge of security for the oil company here,” he told Jim Dingle. “I was in Military Intelligence during the war you know. So when this Avery business cropped up I gave your chaps a buzz in case they were interested.”
“Very good of you,” said Dingle. “What’s your problem?” “Haven’t they told you?”
“I’ve only just arrived here.”
“Oh. Well, he’s missing.”
“Who is?”
“Avery.”
“I think you’d better start at the beginning,” said Dingle patiently.
Edmund Avery, Jones explained, was an oil scientist employed at the refinery. For years he had been working there in his spare time — with the company’s permission — experimenting on a method of using bugs to refine oil.
Scientists in many countries had been working on these lines for a long time.
“Then, towards the end of last year, Red China made a major break-through. I’ll try to keep it simple, because it’s very complicated and, obviously, no one knows much about it.
“China announced that they had found a way to use bugs lo change paraffin into a high-grade fuel, suitable for use at very high altitudes and very low temperatures.
“Of course,” Jones went on, “the military advantages are tremendous, and technologically it puts them years ahead of everyone else. All this happened as the Russo-Chinese idealogical confrontration was reaching its height. And China made it clear they weren’t letting anyone else in on the secret. Are you with me so far?”
“Go on,” said Dingle.
“Anyway, this news seemed to send Avery into a frenzy. He started to work harder than ever at his own research, sometimes until three and four in the morning. God knows when he slept.
“It got to such a pitch that his ordinary work began to suffer and our technical director had to have a word with him about it.
“He told the director that his experiments wouldn’t go on much longer and hinted that he was on the verge of success.
“Later, while they were chatting about his work, the director mentioned the Chinese discovery. Avery started to let off steam about the Chinese being after world domination. You know, Yellow Peril and all that.
“He said the Chinese success had alarmed him and it was a pity Russia didn’t have the process, because he thought Russia was the only country that could stop China.
“The director told me about this conversation when I had dinner with him one night. So I thought I’d keep a discreet eye on Avery; especially later, when about four weeks ago he suddenly stopped working at night and he went about looking quite cheerful.”
Dingle’s opinion of Mr. Glyn Jones rose.
“So I made an excuse to have a chat with him and, during the course of conversation, asked him if he was ever a Communist.”
Dingle’s opinion of Jones sank again. “You asked him that?”
“Yes. He denied it, of course.”
“Of course,” said Dingle wearily.
“Then three days ago he disappeared. So I got in touch with your chaps. Here’s a photograph of Avery, by the way.” He opened a drawer in his desk and took out a picture. There was a moment’s silence before Jones spoke again.
“What do you suggest we do as a next step? Shall I carry out a full inquiry here… interrogate the rest of the staff?”
Dingle shuddered. “Er… no. No don’t do that. In fact don’t do anything.”
He leaned forward conspiratorially. “There’s a bit more to this than you think. I’m not allowed to tell you more at the moment. But it needs handling quietly. We don’t want to stir up a hornet’s nest here.” He winked. “Got me?”
Jones looked confused: “But I’ve got a certain responsibility… ”
“Which you have handed over to us,” Dingle interrupted. “If anyone asks about Avery, say you’ve heard nothing and the police… you’ve informed the police he’s missing I suppose?”
“No. I thought… ”
“Well, you’d better tell them. But don’t mention Avery’s work — his private work, I mean. And if anyone else asks about him say the police are working on the lines of lost memory or possible accident; anything to put them off.”
“But isn’t there something more positive I can do to help, old boy?” protested Jones. “After all I have had some experience in… ”
“Just keep your ears and eyes open for the present and let me know anything that might be of interest.”
He gave Jones the telephone number of his hotel. The security man looked disappointed.
