Prisoner of Fire (10 page)

Then she fell unconscious upon a carpet of bluebells.

D
R
. L
INDEMANN FINALLY
managed
to batter the door open. Dugal his head twisted at an unnatural angle and his face distorted, was hanging with his feet almost touching the floor. The stainless steel pipe from which he had hanged himself was considerably bent. Dr. Lindemann wished vainly that it had fractured before Dugal’s neck was broken. A glance told him that there was no hope of resuscitation. The body, pathetic and terrible, swung slowly, the limp arms moving with a grotesque illusion of life.

Dr. Lindemann, less concerned with the death of a child than with his own problems, contemplated his immediate future. It seemed bleak.

Later, he tried to justify himself to Professor Holroyd, head of Random Hill. Professor Holroyd, white-haired, near to retirement, had never liked Lindemann, had never approved of his methods. Holroyd was a humanist, Lindemann was a pragmatist—a career scientist who would sacrifice anything, including people, to further his own aims. For some time, Lindemann had been regarded by almost everyone except Professor Holroyd as a golden boy—because he produced results. But now his crash-training techniques for paranormal children had come unstuck.

The interview took place within minutes of Dugal’s
death. Dr. Lindemann, Professor Holroyd noted with some satisfaction, was still in a state of shock.

“It looks bad, Lindemann. It looks very bad. But I will do what I can for you. It may not be much… After all, one of your group has absconded and another has committed suicide. There is bound to be an inquiry—particularly since Vanessa Smith has become a political pawn… Do you know why this child—what is he called—Dugal—hanged himself?”

“Sir,” said Dr. Lindemann desperately, “I can only conclude that he was unstable.”

“So. You did not know that he was unstable?”

“No, sir.”

“Then you are incompetent, Dr. Lindemann. You are not fit to be entrusted with the training and development of gifted children.”

“It was a very difficult situation, Professor Holroyd. The security people have been pressing very hard—about Vanessa. The boy Dugal was my best chance of learning what has happened to her. There was a rapport relationship between them.”

“So. The boy Dugal is dead. I do not think he killed himself because he was bored. Why did he kill himself, Dr. Lindemann? What pressure did you apply?”

“Professor Holroyd, I have done nothing that cannot be justified. I gave Dugal Amplia Nine so that he could read Vanessa Smith with or without her consent. Afterwards, I realised that he would not voluntarily tell me all he had learned, so I prepared to give him an injection of Veranon.”

“You told him what you were doing?”’

“Yes, sir. I did not want to have to use the truth drug. I thought the threat would be sufficient. After all, he was only a child.”

“Yes,” said Professor Holroyd heavily, “he was only
a child… But some children have clearer vision than adults, Dr. Lindemann. It is obvious that Dugal did not wish to be chemically violated. His relationship with Vanessa was, evidently, stronger than you supposed. So he chose to preserve his freedom in his own fashion… Later, I will drink to that. Meanwhile, we have you to consider.”

“Yes, sir,” said Dr. Lindemann hopefully. “What would you recommend?”

Professor Holroyd gave him a distant smile. “I would recommend that you make sure your passport is in order. His Majesty’s loyal Opposition already know about Vanessa, and seek to embarrass the government. The affair is now of some magnitude. No doubt the leader of the New Consensus Party will learn presently of the death of Dugal Nemo from the same source that revealed the disappearance of Vanessa Smith. I think that will surely harden parliamentary resistance to the Security of the State Bill—to Sir Joseph’s acute political embarrassment. The Prime Minister does not like to be embarrassed; and you, Lindemann, have become a great source of embarrassment… Yes, if I were you, I should be thinking in terms of foreign travel. Extensive travel. I am told it broadens the mind.”

Sweat formed on Lindemann’s forehead. “I can’t understand how the news of Vanessa leaked,” he said desperately. “Unless there is a para spy here at Random Hill, and that is plainly impossible. So how could they learn of Dugal’s death unless—” he stopped.

Professor Holroyd was enjoying himself. “Exactly. Unless someone in authority told them.”

“You!”

“Dr. Lindemann, there are still a number of people who are old-fashioned enough to believe that human
beings should be treated as human beings. That is one of the reasons I accepted my present appointment—so that I could act as a brake upon people like you, power-hungry career men backed by Humboldt’s dogs. You are not a scientist. You are not even much of a human being. You are just a little man on the make. Well, you have gambled, Lindemann, and you have lost.”

“You!” Lindemann reached for the V-phone.

Holroyd shrugged. “Use it by all means, dear fellow. Your star sender escaped, your star probe committed suicide. And now you are about to accuse me of professional indiscretion. Use the V-phone if you wish. It is the surest way of bringing Humboldt’s dogs upon you.”

Lindemann collapsed, a shaking wreck. “What shall I do? What shall I do?”

“See that your passport is in order,” said Holroyd patiently. “Move fast. Do not stay in one place over long.” He smiled. “You might offer your services and experiences in Eastern Europe. If they accepted you, that would be the safest course of all.”

“I am not a criminal or a traitor. I don’t want to run.”

“There is an alternative,” suggested Professor Holroyd with some malice. “The one that Dugal Nemo took.”

Jenny Pargetter was drained—physically, emotionally, intellectually. The paranormals of the Department of Internal Security had probed her mind with professional thoroughness, carefully examining all the images, memories and associations they found.

Jenny had felt them, had felt an invasion she was powerless to stop, had felt a succession of cold, almost impersonal phantoms plucking at her most private thoughts, looking coolly at her most cherished memories. She shuddered each time she remembered the process. Once or twice it had made her physically sick. It was
like being raped successively by strangers who did not even take pleasure in their violence.

She was sitting in the small but comfortably furnished room that had been placed at her disposal. It was in what, apparently, had once been a secluded country house, far enough away from London to give a sense of isolation. She did not know where Simon was; but she had been allowed to talk to him by V-phone less than half an hour ago. He had not looked very happy. Presumably, he, too, had been probed. Presumably, he, too, felt wretched.

The last interrogator had told her that her ordeal was over. In a tightly controlled voice she had asked when she would be released and reunited with her husband. The interrogator had not answered her question. He had made polite, sympathetic noises and told her to relax, indicating the drinks and cigarettes on a sideboard, the tri-di, the stereo player, the tape library, the books on the shelves. He told her that Denzil Ingram would be along presently; and meanwhile the best thing to do was try to forget all the regrettable but necessary things that had happened.

Then, very quickly, he had left the room. It was then that Jenny noticed that there was no handle on the door. She wondered how the interrogator had opened it.

According to her watch, the interrogator had been gone just over twenty minutes. During that time, Jenny had smoked three cigarettes and had drunk about a quarter of a bottle of neat Scotch whisky. It was a very good whisky; but apart from making her feel slightly warmer, it seemed to have little effect.

She was just pouring herself another drink when Denzil Ingram entered the room noiselessly. She was so surprised to see him as she turned that she almost dropped her glass of whisky.

“Forgive
me, Mrs. Pargetter. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“I suppose creeping comes naturally to one in your profession.”

He refused to take offence. “May I sit down?”

Jenny had heard her voice rising and made an effort to control it. “This is your territory, Mr. Ingram. You have already demonstrated that you do not need my permission to do anything.”

He smiled. “Then I, too, will drink some of the state’s whisky.” Ingram poured himself a generous measure. “Let us relax and have a talk.”

“As you can see,” she said bitterly, “I am in no mood to relax. Nor do I want to have a talk. I just want to get away from this place with my husband as fast as possible.”

“All in good time,” he soothed. “Believe me, Mrs. Pargetter, I want to make things easy for you. I know what being probed is like.” He took a drink and smiled at her. “Every time I was promoted, I had to undergo total probe. I have been completely ‘washed out’, as we say, three times.” He stared at her intently. “It’s a rape of the mind, you know. We live in cruel times.”

“If that is how you feel, why do you allow it to be done to innocent people such as me and my husband?”

He shrugged. “Necessity. I have a job to do. Sometimes I like it, sometimes I don’t. This time I don’t.’”

“Necessity! Everything from blackmail to murder can be justified under that heading.”

“True,” he said calmly, “but my concern is the safety of the realm. And I will employ any method that enables me to discharge my duty.”

“At least you are honest.” Jenny swallowed her whisky, and began to feel a reluctant admiration for Denzil Ingram.

“I
try to be. If I am dishonest, it is not because I want to be… Now, Mrs. Pargetter, I will be completely honest with you. Oddly, I like you—and that is why I am prepared to declare all my options. But first let us talk about Vanessa.”

Jenny poured herself another drink. Ingram raised an eyebrow, but made no comment.

“Yes, let us talk about Vanessa. Your minions screwed my mind until I had to vomit.”

“I know and I am sorry.”

“Your sorrow is noted. So let us talk about Vanessa.”

“You were very helpful. We now know who is protecting her.”

Jenny was amazed. “I didn’t know, so how could you—?”

“It’s easy, The white man’s magic. Computers. You gave us the vital clue. A picture of a man whose face had been badly injured. We turned that over to the computer network. It has access to all hospital records for the last twenty years. Amazingly, there turned out to be nearly thirty thousand people with severe facial injuries. But roughly half these were women. The picture we got from you was of a man who had suffered recent injuries. We were able to narrow the field to four thousand cases. The picture suggested an age range of thirty-five to forty-five. We narrowed to one thousand eight hundred. His hair was dark, and he had an educated voice. We cut down to four hundred and eighty-one males. He lived in seclusion in a rural area. That reduced us to one hundred and twelve possibles… You were born in the South Downs, weren’t you, Mrs. Pargetter?”

“Yes.” Jenny held her glass of whisky tensely, not drinking it. “But what has that to do with it?”

“You recognised some of the country Vanessa had
seen on her flight from Random Hill. That reduced our field to seventeen possibles. My men have been busy. Eight possibles have been eliminated. That leaves nine who cannot at present be traced. Out of those nine, the computer has selected a maximum probability. His name is Roland Badel, doctor of psychology. He is the one. Somewhere in the South Downs, he is sheltering Vanessa.”

“Assuming your computer to be infallible—which I doubt—how does all this affect me and my husband?”

Denzil Ingram sighed. Now came the hard part. He wasn’t betting either way. Women were the damnedest creatures. But sometimes they could be practical. Sometimes.

“Mrs. Pargetter, let us be frank with each other. It’s the only way we can arrive at an understanding. If I were to release you and your husband now, what would you do?”

She gave a bitter laugh. “Have me probed and find out.”

“I could do, but I don’t want to. Unnecessary brutality is abhorrent to me…Nor is it elegant to crack a walnut with a sledgehammer.”

“Elegant! That is a nice choice of word… So you consider me as a walnut ready for the cracking?”

“Forgive me. It was a bad metaphor. But you must bear in mind that I am empowered to use the metaphorical sledgehammer. It is vitally important for you to remember that. Now, please tell me honestly what you would do, and I will be equally honest with you.”

“Mr. Ingram, you continue to amaze me. You are the most polite thug I have ever encountered.” Oddly, Jenny felt less tense. There was obviously going to be some kind of showdown and, in a way, she felt relieved.

Ingram helped himself to more whisky. “I fear your
experience of thugs is limited, Mrs. Pargetter. But please answer my question. It is important.”

Jenny took a deep breath. “Well, then, I shall talk to the newspapers. I shall tell them all that has happened—and I shall add the information you have just given me that Vanessa is alive and well. And how do you like that, Mr. Ingram?”

He smiled. “I like your honesty. The newspapers I can fix, of course. They won’t print a word of what you say.”

“Then, if necessary, I’ll stand on a soap-box at Speakers’ Corner. There is still some freedom left in this country.”

“I am sorry to disillusion you, but freedom is already a casualty of the age… But to return to matters practical. Vanessa has become of political significance, Mrs. Pargetter. If I could have found her shortly after her escape, all would have been well, relatively speaking. But now it is politically necessary that she does not exist. We have a problem.”

“You have a problem,” flashed Jenny. “My course of action is crystal clear.”

“No, Mrs. Pargetter.
You
have a problem. Because, you see, I am in control of events.”

“What do you mean?” Jenny was trembling. She hoped it was not visible, but she knew it was.

“You have been honest. I will honour my bargain. I have several options. If necessary—and I hope it won’t be—I can have you and your husband killed. It would, of course, look like an accident. Let us say a hovercar accident. Or it could even look like a suicide pact, with explanatory notes left which the experts would undoubtedly testify to be authentic. All this would depend on departmental strategy. I mention these distasteful
possibilities only to emphasise the seriousness of the situation.”