Death's No Antidote Page 3

  “You’re sweating. Lie down and keep covered up or you’ll catch cold.”

  She forced him down and snuggled close to him.

  “It must have been an awful dream. What was it about?”

  “Nothing. I can’t remember. Did I say anything?” he added anxiously.

  “You were just shouting ‘No’ and ‘Let me go’.”

  Susan felt the tremors which ran through his body as he recalled the details of the nightmare.

  Her gentle, soothing fingers stroked away the pain of fear. Her soft, warm kisses melted the icy needle of terror in his stomach and kindled a flame of desire.

  Slowly, he became aware of her: of her slim legs wrapped about him; of her breasts pressed to him. He moved to face her, returning her caresses and kisses. The flame exploded into a volcano.

  She felt his need, hard and urgent, drew him to her and clasped him tightly as they made love.

  Afterwards, as he lay spent and exhausted, she leaned over his and spoke softly in his ear.

  “What’s troubling you, Julian? I know something’s wrong. Let me help you.”

  He stiffened as awareness came flooding back.

  “Please tell me, darling,” she said when he didn’t speak. “If something’s worrying you, let me share it. I love you.”

  The sick dread was back in him now, numbing all other senses. The ticking of the alarm clock drew his eyes. Four o’clock. Thursday.

  Today was the day. They’d ordered him to get the file today. In a few hours he was due to go on duty at the Foreign Office. And then…

  “Julian! Please!”

  Susan’s voice penetrated his thoughts. He’d have to tell her something. At least she might be an ally. She’d be on his side — if he didn’t tell her the truth.

  He stirred, and said: “It’s work.”

  “Work? Your job at the F.O.?”

  “Well…” he paused. “It’s not exactly my job. I’ve been seconded to Intelligence… I’m working for Security.”

  “Security? You? You mean you’re some sort of spy?”

  “Agent. We call them agents.” He added urgently: “But you mustn’t tell anyone about this. It’s highly secret and…and…” his voice hardened as he became carried away by his own fantasy… “I’m engaged on a dangerous mission.”

  Susan was impressed.

  “No wonder you’ve been scared.”

  “Scared?” he said angrily. “I’m not scared. It’s just the tension. I’m always like this before a mission.”

  “You mean you’ve done this sort of thing before?”

  “Yes,” he answered recklessly. “I’m a full-time British agent really. But you must never repeat what I’ve said. I trust you, Sue,” he went on dramatically. “That’s why I’m telling you. It’s a lonely business…and I’ve got to confide in someone.”

  She snuggled up to him.

  “You can trust me, darling. Is it really dangerous, this job?”

  “Mission,” he said. “Yes. I’ve got to get hold of something of vital importance to this country.”

  “When?”

  “Today!”

  “Today? Then by tonight it will be all over?”

  “Yes,” he said with feeling. “By tonight it will be all over.”

  Chapter Five

  Miss Peach looked up and smiled when Dingle and Jones walked into her office. She liked and admired both of them; often, when they were working overseas, she worried about them.

  Glyn Jones came in first, and she marvelled once more that his limp was barely perceptible. It was hard to believe that he had a false foot, the legacy of his first mission with Dingle.

  The Welshman was forty-four, but looked ten years older. Pain and worry had ploughed deep furrows across his brow, but had failed to erase the crinkles of good humour which fanned out from the corners of his steady grey eyes.

  Now that tired, lined face cracked into an answering grin.

  “There’s lovely you look! Give your dream boy a kiss,” he said putting his arm around her shoulders and pecking her on the cheek. “Don’t we look right for each other Jim boyo?”

  “Peaches and Dream,” said Dingle. “But take your hands off my bird. She’s promised to go out with me, haven’t you Peach?”

  “I’ve told you before, I’m not a cradle-snatcher,” replied Miss Peach, who was fat, jolly — and sixty-six. Past retirement age, she had been kept on by the SS(O)S chief who had once been heard to growl that his secretary was “the only indispensable person in the whole damned outfit.”

  “And as for you,” she added to Jones, disengaging his arm, “you’re not my dream boy — and I know all about you and that girl from the cipher office. Would you be unfaithful to her?”

  “That’s Glyn the Sin for you,” commented Dingle.

  Jones looked thoughtful.

  “Now why do you think our lovely Peach should reject two handsome, eligible bachelors like us, boyo? Is it possible that she loves another?”

  Dingle pretended to consider the point.

  “Perhaps she’s in love with her boss,” he said.

  Miss Peach blushed and reached for the intercom, trying to hide her confusion.

  “There’s someone with him at the moment, but I’ll tell the Director you’re here,” she said, pressing the switch.

  “Yes?” The Director’s voice made the loudspeaker vibrate.

  “Mr. Dingle and Mr. Jones are here, sir.”

  “Send them straight in.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She released the switch and looked at the two agents. “You heard,” she said.

  “You know, Jim bach,” said Jones as they moved towards the inner door, “I think you hit the nail right on the head.”

  *

  The two men sitting opposite the Director stood and turned to face the SS(O)S agents as they came through the door.

  Dingle was in the lead this time. Hard, lean and confident, his movements were those of an athlete in peak condition. His age could have been anything from thirty-eight to forty-five. Dark hair, flecked with grey, framed regular features of a face that was neither handsome nor ugly; an anonymous face.

  “Mr. James Dingle, Mr. Glyn Jones, I’d like you to meet Mr. Gruber from NSA and Mr. Ritchie of the FBI,” said the Director.

  “Nick Gruber,” said the first American, clasping Dingle’s right hand and nothing that the British agent’s index finger and the one next to it were missing.

  Dingle had lost them on the same mission that had cost Jones his foot. Since then, he had learned to palm his automatic with the third finger, using his small finger to squeeze the trigger. Practice had made perfect. He had also taught himself to fire left-handed.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you,” the NSA agent added smiling. “Glad to meet you at last.”

  Gruber looked more like a professor than an Intelligence man. Slightly built, with thinning fair hair, he was three inches shorter than Dingle’s five foot ten. But the Englishman guessed from his firm handshake that his slender frame concealed an immense wiry strength. Baby blue eyes blinked through gold-rimmed spectacles, studying Dingle so closely that he felt he was being mentally indexed.

  “Pleased to meet you, too,” said Dingle as the American relaxed his grip. “I don’t know any of your chaps, probably because I’ve never been to Fort Meade. I know quite a few of the boys at Langley though.”

  Gruber’s smile faded slightly.

  “Sorry to hear you keep such bad company,” he said. “You should steer clear of the pickle factory. Some of the smell might stick.”

  He shifted his attention to Jones, and Dingle found his hand being crushed again, this time by the FBI agent.

  “Jason Ritchie,” the American introduced himself. “My friends call me Son.”

  Dingle grinned and extricated his hand.

  “If you don’t mind, Son, I’d like to hang on to the few fingers I’ve got left.”


  This man, he saw, was quite different to Gruber. Over six feet tall, his broad shoulders made him look shorter. Alert brown eyes were wide apart in a smooth, evenly-tanned face beneath close-cropped dark brown hair. The chin was round and strong, the mouth wide and humorous. The only thing that prevented him from being unbearably handsome was his nose. It looked as if it had been broken six times and remodelled by a drunken tree surgeon.

  “You boyos are a bit off the beaten track, aren’t you?” said Jones. “I thought you were home birds.”

  “Not at all,” replied Gruber easily. “Both our outfits are concerned with counter espionage. Sometimes our work takes us abroad — as in this case…” he paused and looked directly at Dingle… “And I think you’ll agree Jim that the DNA file is very much an American CE matter.”

  Dingle raised his eyebrows politely.

  “DNA file? What’s that?”

  The Director interrupted.

  “I’m sorry gentlemen, but I must call our interview to a close. I have work to do with Mr. Dingle and Mr. Jones. I just thought I would introduce them to you before you left. You never know when your paths might cross in the…ah…line of business.”

  “Sure, sure. Don’t let us hold you up, sir,” said Gruber. “Thank you for sparing us your valuable time.” He looked at Dingle and Jones and added: “I’m sure we’ll be meeting again soon.”

  “It’ll be a pleasure,” said Dingle.

  When they had gone, the two British agents sat in the seats vacated by the Americans.

  “Who steered them in this direction?” asked Dingle.

  “I’m not sure,” answered the Director. “It could have been C. On the other hand, they say they are paying courtesy calls on the heads of all our security sections to let us know they are operating over here. It seems they don’t want to tread on our toes.”

  “There’s polite,” said Jones. “A funny partnership though, isn’t it sir, NSA and FBI?”

  “There again, they were careful to explain that while the FBI were making a routine check for security leaks in the DNA file, some of NSA’s electronic equipment picked up a coded reference to it on a top security line in China. So the two organisations are co-operating.

  “Gruber made sure he mentioned the DNA file to me a few times — without saying what it was, of course. Obviously he wanted to see my reaction.”

  The Director looked at Dingle. “I’m glad you didn’t give anything away when he tried it on you James. I thought I’d better let you meet them. They might get under your feet while you’re working on this job, so it’s just as well for you to know who they are.

  “Now then,” he went on brusquely, “what about Croome-Pugglesley? Have you heard anything from him?”

  “He has been in touch, sir,” replied Dingle. “This morning. He says he has had instructions to photograph the contents of the file today. They told him how he is to hand the film over tonight.”

  “Can he do it?”

  “He thinks so.”

  “Have you given him any instructions?”

  “I’ve just told him to do exactly what the Other Side tell him to.”

  The Director leaned forward, resting his paunch on the desk.

  “Keep me posted of all developments. Glyn, you must keep James covered at all times — and the pair of you will have to make sure those blasted Americans don’t get in your way. There must be no mistake on this one. If there is a mistake, it’ll be the last any of us will make.”

  He nodded his head in dismissal. “As you go out, tell Miss Peach I want her.”

  The two agents walked through the secretary’s office to the outer door and into the corridor.

  Then Jones stuck his head back round the door and said: “Oh, Peach, you’re in luck. Your dream has come true. The boss told me to tell you he wants you.”

  The Welshman leered and emphasised the word “wants”.

  He closed the door just in time. He heard the heavy metal stapler crash against the other side.

  Chapter Six

  C tapped the stem of his pipe irritably between his teeth and stared at the document on his desk.

  In ascending order of importance, official documents are classified as restricted, confidential, secret and top secret. NATO have an even higher classification called NATO cosmic. Beyond this, documents become personal, to be opened only by the person to whom it is addressed.

  The one on C’s desk was personal. He picked it up and read it for the fourth time, slowly and carefully. It said:

  Additional data dispatched updating DNA file. Ensure tightest security. Information suggests leakage Chinawise. Investigating this end. NSA and FBI agents Gruber and Ritchie will make contact to assist your end. Co-operation vital.

  It was signed by the head of the US Joint Intelligence Committee State Department.

  C put down the flimsy document and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes to think.

  This note, which had reached him the day before, was the first hint he’d had that China might be involved. The two American agents had called on him only half an hour ago — but they had been unable, or unwilling, to add anything more concrete than that a message mentioning DNA had been intercepted in China.

  China! He remembered that SS(O)S had, in the past, carried out operations against China. Perhaps that was how the Director had got on to it. He took comfort from the thought.

  He recalled the Director’s statement at the JIC meeting: “If there’s been any leak, it’s probably at the American end.”

  The sudden alarm in the Washington camp lent weight to this. But why was the Director so anxious that Julian Croome-Pugglesley should not be alerted?

  Possibly, he thought, the SS(O)S chief expected C.P. to be approached — or even kidnapped with the DNA file. In which case the Director’s men would be watching C.P. very closely. But suppose — the DI6 head shuddered at the thought — suppose something went wrong and C.P. vanished with the file.

  The safety of the file in this country was solely the concern of DI6; yet the presence of the NSA and FBI agents suggested that his American opposite numbers doubted the efficiency of his department. C strongly resented this.

  He opened his eyes and saw again the final two words of the message: Co-operation vital.

  Damn the Director, damn the Americans, damn them all. He’d co-operate all right. He’d keep the DNA file sewn up so tightly for the next four days that nobody could get at it. At the end of that time the Director of SS(O)S would be forced to come clean to the JIC.

  Until then, he’d co-operate to the best of his ability. That was why he’d hinted to the American agents, without being specific, that it might pay them to contact SS(O)S.

  Until then, he’d concentrate on one thing: keeping the secrets of the DNA file secure.

  He reached for the phone.

  *

  In a much smaller room on the next floor of the Foreign Office the internal phone on Croome-Pugglesley’s desk buzzed insistently. Without shifting his gaze from the papers in front of him, C.P. picked up the receiver.

  “Yes?”

  “Have you received an addition to the DNA file?” asked C.

  “Yes sir. It’s in front of me now. An addition and some minor alterations. I’ve just sent for the file. It’s being taken down to the research labs in Wiltshire this afternoon so that the boffins can study it, so I’ll have to get it done before…”

  “Cancel that,” said C quickly. “Delay the file’s departure for four days. Got that?”

  “Yes sir. But what…?”

  “I want to check security down there and I want a further screening on the scientists who will have access. By the way, do you ever take the file out of the building to work on at home?”

  “Good lord, no sir. It’s top secret material and I…”

  “Well just make sure you don’t. When you’ve finished bringing it up to date it must not leave the strong room until it
goes down to Wiltshire four days from now. Is that clear?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “And another thing,” C’s voice became almost a whisper over the wire, “watch out for yourself when you’re outside the office.”

  The knot in C.P.’s stomach tightened.

  “What do you mean sir?”

  “Someone might approach you about the file.”

  “Approach…?”

  “I can’t be specific. But if the Other Side have got wind of the file, they might try to…ah…bribe you or even…” the voice dropped even lower… “resort to physical violence. Do you understand?”

  C.P. tried to swallow. His Adam’s apple seemed to be stuck to the dry walls of his throat.

  “Are you there?”

  “Yes, sir.” The words came out hoarsely. “You mean they might…?”

  “Abduct you, kidnap you.” C’s voice was back to full strength now, tetchy and impatient. “Now do you understand man?”

  C.P. reached out a shaking hand for his cup and swallowed cold drags of tea to ease his parched throat.

  “For heaven’s sake, man! Are you there? Can you hear me?”

  “Yes sir. But what makes you think there might have been a…a…?”

  “Leak? Because I’ve just had a visit from two American agents. They hinted at something of the sort.”

  For the first time during the conversation, C.P. raised his eyes from the papers on his desk to look at the two men sitting opposite. He said into the phone: “With me now sir.”

  “Eh? What? Ah, I see! You can’t say much. I understand now.” C’s tone was less sharp. “Well, remember what I said and watch out for yourself.”

  The line went dead. C.P. replaced the receiver, slowly, to give himself time to think and to get his voice working properly again.

  He looked at Gruber and Ritchie.

  “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I…”

  A knock on the door gave him a further respite. Two security guards came in, one of them carrying the DNA file.

  “Put it on the desk,” said C.P., “and then wait outside. I’ll only be about ten minutes, and then I want you to take it back to the strong room.”