Death's No Antidote Read online

  Death’s No Antidote

  Geoffrey Osborne

  © Geoffrey Osborne 1971

  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 1971 by Robert Hale.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  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 Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  In a bachelor flat just off Albemarle Street and far enough away from Piccadilly to be insulated from its traffic noises, a tall, lean man hummed to himself. Not a pop song, because the man was a snob; but he considered Fingal’s Cave to be a lively, happy piece of music. So he hummed it, because he was happy.

  He had every reason to feel pleased with himself. At the age of thirty-four, just when he was beginning to despair of climbing higher up the Foreign Office ladder, he had been promoted; and he had been entrusted with highly confidential work. That meant there were no black marks against him. His nose was clean.

  He had been seriously worried during the past year; but his fears obviously had been groundless. The new job, he knew, merited a positive vetting, but it had not prevented his appointment. The security people must have been satisfied. His nose was, without doubt, very clean.

  There was another reason for his happiness. He was in love; and in about an hour he would be meeting Susan, the girl who shared his somewhat high-brow cultural tastes and, occasionally, his bed. He had just returned from a visit to America on Foreign Office business, and so they hadn’t seen each other for ten days.

  “Ta ra ta-ta ta ta…”

  His thick, rather unpleasant looking lips moved as he sang, bouncing apart like two pieces of rubber.

  “…ta-ra ra ra tum tum.”

  The telephone rang and he walked quickly across the room to snatch up the receiver. It was probably Susan.

  “Julian Croome-Pugglesley speaking,” he announced in his full, rich tone.

  The voice that came back over the wire wasn’t Susan’s. His face grew pale as he listened.

  “Who is that? Who are you?”

  He listened again, and then slowly replaced the receiver which was wet with sweat from his trembling hand.

  At that moment happiness died in him and the birth pains began of a new and terrible emotion. Fear.

  *

  Two hours later the Director of Britain’s Special Security (Operations) Section picked up one of the five telephones on his desk, the black one which linked him to the outside world. He dialled a number.

  “Dingle? Scramble please.” He paused and then continued: “Remember Croome-Pugglesley? He’s had a phone call… No, I don’t know that yet. For the moment we’ll assume it’s the Chinese. They made a rendezvous… Yes, on Monday morning… No, he knows you, so Williams is taking care of that, but I want you in here by ten on Monday. Is that clear? And alert Jones, will you? I want you both here.”

  The Director replaced the receiver, and flicked up the intercom switch.

  “Miss Peach, fetch me the files on Julian Croome-Pugglesley and on Counter-Intelligence (China).”

  Next, he picked up the green telephone, the direct line to his control room.

  “Duty Officer? Ah, Mr. Williams, you can use as many men as you think necessary on Monday — but ensure that none of them is known to Croome-Pugglesley. You’d better get the electronics department to help you in this. I don’t want any mistakes. And arrange immediate surveillance. Discreetly, you understand. Someone else may already be tailing him.”

  Chapter One

  The Director switched off the miniature tape recorder and leaned back in his swivel chair.

  He peered from under bushy, white eyebrows which were pulled down so low that the skin around his deep-set brown eyes and on his high forehead wrinkled like corrugated paper. His mouth opened lopsidedly to reveal dazzling white dentures. The Director was smiling.

  Sitting facing him across the desk his two top agents, James Dingle and Glyn Jones, shifted uncomfortably. They thought he was scowling at them.

  The Director nodded towards the tape recorder.

  “The marvels of modern counter-intelligence. Almost every word, even though they were speaking in a crowded public restaurant.” He shook his head in wonder. “I wish we’d had these electronic aids when I was an agent in the field.”

  “Have we identified Croome-Pugglesley’s contact yet, sir?” asked Dingle.

  “Yes.” The SS(O)S chief picked up a type-written report and began to read. “Fellow by the name of William Dawes. Bachelor. Age forty. Export salesman. Travels all over the world selling light aircraft.”

  Dingle and Jones glanced at each other.

  “Plenty of opportunities for passing on information to agents overseas,” observed Jones.

  “Or for receiving instructions,” said Dingle.

  “Nothing known against him,” the Director continued. “Successful at his job. Earns £10,000 a year. Lives in Kent, near New Romney. Modest enough house, but quite a lot of land attached. Part of it used as a grass air landing strip. A qualified pilot. Flies a company plane normally housed in a small hangar on aforementioned airstrip. Good service record. Was an infantry captain in Korea. Won the M.C.”

  He paused, put down the report and then added heavily: “Taken prisoner six months before the war ended.”

  “Ah!” said Dingle. “The link with China. Do you think he was brainwashed?”

  The Director winced at the word. “Highly possible.”

  “How can we be sure that he is working for China?” asked Jones.

  “We can’t be sure, yet; but again, it’s highly possible. Don’t forget, in the original phone call to Croome-Pugglesley, the late and unlamented Sir Roger Coyle was specifically mentioned.”

  “Dawes referred to Coyle as well when he kept the rendezvous with Croome-Pugglesley,” said Dingle recalling the tape-recorded conversation.

  “Quite so. And apart from this department, only the Chinese know of C.P.’s involvement with Coyle. Although,” the Director added thoughtfully, “I’m willing to concede that the Russians might have unearthed the fact. They were closely connected with the affair.”

  “We’ll assume it’s the Chinese we’re up against then,” said Dingle. “So what’s the next step?”

  “I think you and Jones should call on C.P. and persuade him to co-operate with us.”

  “Poor old C.P. He won’t know which way to turn,” said Jones. “I wonder if he’ll have a suitable quotation for this situation?” he added with a smile, remembering the Foreign Office man’s habit of using Latin phrases.

  “Dawes told C.P. that he wants details of the DNA file,” said Dingle. “Do you know what he meant?”

  The Director sighed.

  “Yes, I do now. I made discreet inquiries through DI6 — but I had to go direct to C for the information. Wish I hadn’t now. I seem to have stirred up a hornet’s nest, and I’ve been summoned to a meeting of the Joint Intelligence Committee at the F.O. this afternoon.


  “The DNA file belongs to the Americans. Reluctantly, it seems, they have allowed a copy to be brought over here for our own scientists to study and evaluate. Security is in the hands of DI6…and, as we heard on the tape, the Foreign Office link man with Washington is Croome-Pugglesley.”

  “So C.P. has access?” asked Jones.

  “He has.”

  “What exactly is the DNA file about, sir?” asked Dingle.

  “C almost had a heart attack when he realised that I’d even heard of it,” answered the Director. “Denied all knowledge of it at first, but he did give me a brief outline after I told him I knew about Croome-Pugglesley’s connection with it.

  “It seems that American biologists have isolated a key to heredity. DNA — or to give it its full name, deoxyribonucleic acid — is popularly known as the chemical of life. What the Americans have done is to isolate a single gene, a factor determining hereditary characteristics from DNA. Now they’ve taken it a step further.”

  Dingle looked up sharply. “Genetic engineering?”

  “Exactly. They started to experiment with the idea of trying to obviate hereditary diseases or to change unwanted hereditary traits, such as weak eyesight, by injecting new genes.

  “But now, it seems, the system could be used to purify any genes; those determining a person’s size, muscle-power, IQ…the field is limitless.”

  The Director paused and leaned forward, hands flat on the desk and eyebrows raised to expose the two agents fully to the glare of his bright, intelligent eyes. When he spoke again his voice was lower, almost hushed.

  “You realise the political implications? If this knowledge was used wrongly by a government or a dictator…”

  He didn’t complete the sentence. It was left for Dingle to say quietly: “They could produce a master-race. And China is trying to pinch the secret.”

  Glyn Jones was suitably impressed.

  “Bloody ’ell Jim, boyo. Just imagine, millions of Chinese, all twelve feet tall, strong as horses and with their heads bulging with brains!”

  Chapter Two

  Croome-Pugglesley’s nerves were raw. Over the past few days he’d had a permanent sick feeling in his stomach; he jumped at any unexpected sound, and he was becoming more bad-tempered than usual. Several times each night he woke up bathed in sweat.

  Susan had noticed the change in him. She guessed something was wrong, and thought it was to do with his visit to America. She’d tried to comfort him; but all her attempts had failed. She tried again.

  “Tell me what’s wrong, Julian,” she said. “I know something’s troubling you. You’ve hardly spoken to me since you got back from America — and when you do speak you almost snap my head off.” She tried to make her voice sound light. “Did you meet someone else while you were over there? Is that it?”

  He looked at the almost icy beauty of her long, pale face, marred now by an anxious frown.

  If only he could tell her, he thought. If only he could tell anyone. But how could he? He was alone in his fear. It was a burden nobody could share.

  “Of course I haven’t met anyone else,” he said. “I’m just a bit off-colour, that’s all. It’s nothing.”

  Her brown eyes were soft with concern.

  “You should see your doctor.”

  “It’s nothing, I tell you,” he said angrily. “I’ll have an early night and then I’ll be all right.”

  “I’ll make you a hot drink.”

  “No! I’ll get it myself, later, when you’ve gone.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise.

  “I thought…don’t you want me to stay?”

  He didn’t answer. How could he explain that he had to be alone in the flat?

  Susan got up from her chair, jabbed out her half-finished cigarette in the ash tray and tossed her head angrily, shaking her long black hair clear of her eyes which were blazing with fury.

  “I see,” she said through tight lips, moving quickly into the tiny hall, where she put on her coat without bothering to fasten it and picked up her overnight bag. She came back into the room for her handbag and turned again towards the door.

  Croome-Pugglesley was on his feet.

  “Susan!”

  “Well?” Her tone was hostile.

  “Be reasonable, Sue. All I said was…” Suddenly he felt his own temper rising, and he was shouting. “For God’s sake, what’s the matter with you? You’re behaving like a spoilt child…”

  “Go to hell!”

  She was running into the hall.

  “Sue!”

  But it was too late. The front door had slammed shut behind her.

  *

  Susan Pike didn’t wait for the lift. She ran down the four flights of stairs to the street and walked quickly towards Green Park Underground station.

  She felt angry and humiliated, and yet was aware of another underlying feeling akin to panic which threatened to rise to the surface.

  She was seriously worried about Julian. Something had happened to him, she was sure. He seemed almost…frightened. She must find out what had changed him. But supposing, after this scene, he didn’t want her back?

  Her own fear welled up and threatened to choke her. No! It couldn’t end now. It mustn’t. There was a very special reason why.

  She waited for the lights to halt the Piccadilly traffic so that she could cross. In the morning, she resolved, she would call him on the telephone and apologise, no matter how much it hurt her pride. The lights changed and she began to move again.

  Even if she had not been so preoccupied, Susan would never have known she was being followed.

  It was being done so expertly.

  *

  The anger and frustration ebbed from Croome-Pugglesley with the dying echoes of Susan’s footsteps on the stairs. The sick fear began to take over again.

  He tried to shrug off the feeling and went into the bedroom, switching on the light and pulling the curtains across before opening the drawer in the bedside table.

  He took out a small package which had arrived in the morning mail, and sat on the bed to read again the note inside.

  “As you will see from these prints, you haven’t got the focus quite right. Practise some more — and use the enclosed stand. We feel that, when it comes to the real thing, your hands might shake too much to make a satisfactory job of it. Pass on film tomorrow, as before.”

  The note was unsigned.

  He walked back into the sitting-room and opened the writing bureau. From an inside drawer, he took out the 8mm Minox B camera and fitted it into the stand.

  He began to move more quickly, glancing at his watch to time himself. Opening his brief case, he took out a 200 watt bulb and swapped it with the one in the reading lamp.

  A circular letter had arrived in the afternoon post. He ripped it out of the envelope and smoothed it out on the desk. It wouldn’t stay flat, so he used a paper weight and an ink stand to hold it down.

  He adjusted the camera on its stand and peeped through the view finder, before switching on the lamp and arranging it so that the light fell just right.

  A quick look at his watch. Thirty-five seconds. Completely absorbed now, he began to operate the camera. He took two shots of the circular, and then began to photograph every document within reach: insurance policy, passport, Premium Bonds. He worked steadily until the micro-film was used up.

  Two minutes and twenty seconds. Damn. He’d have to be quicker…

  He jerked round as though pulled by a string when the doorbell rang. His face paled and the left cheek began to twitch; but his limbs seemed incapable of movement.

  The bell rang again.

  He cursed himself for a fool. It was probably Susan; she’d come back to make it up.

  He switched off the lamp and shut the camera inside the bureau. Then he crossed the hall to the front door, fixing his face in a smile as he went.

  The smile slipped and his jaw sagged when
he opened the door.

  “Hello, C.P. boyo,” said Glyn Jones cheerfully. “Remember us?”

  “Er…er…”

  “We just happened to be in the area,” added Dingle, “so we thought we’d look you up. Aren’t you going to ask us in?”

  “Er…yes…of course.”

  Croome-Pugglesley led the way to the sitting-room and nodded towards the easy chairs.

  “Sit down, won’t you?” He tried to force a note of joviality into his voice. “Well, this is a pleasant surprise! What will you have to drink?”

  “Nothing for us boyo.” Jones was exaggerating his Welsh accent. “Not when we’re on duty.”

  The reluctant host sat down abruptly on the settee.

  “On duty?”

  “Well, we don’t drink when we’re working, you see. I suppose we’re like policemen, in a way.”

  “But you said… I thought this was a social call.” Croome-Pugglesley tried to keep the tremor from his voice. “Oh, I see. Up to your old cloak and dagger tricks again eh? And you want me to help?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, what can I do for you?”

  “Tell us all you know about Dawes.”

  “Dawes?” Croome-Pugglesley looked puzzled.

  “William Dawes,” said Jones.

  “Am I supposed to know him?”

  Dingle, who had been gazing round the room, directed his gaze at the Foreign Office man.

  “Do you deny that you met him in a restaurant on Monday: that he asked you to obtain a copy of the DNA file?”

  “Oh my God!”

  Croome-Pugglesley buried his face in his hands.

  “I didn’t even know his name. He never told me,” he said miserably.

  “And do you deny that he gave you a camera?” Dingle went on relentlessly. “You received a phone call last Saturday telling you where to meet him.”

  “You seem to know as much as I do. More. How did you get…”

  Croome-Pugglesley jumped to his feet, suddenly angry.

  “He was one of your men!” he shouted. “You’re trying to trick me. This…this Dawes, or whatever his name is, is a SS(O)S man, isn’t he? What are you up to?”