Prisoner of Fire (11 page)

Jenny was visibly going to pieces. She helped herself to more whisky, slopping as much around the glass as she managed to pour into it.

“I see,” she said in an unnaturally calm voice. “You are offering a bargain. My life and my husband’s life for Vanessa’s life. You want to kill her and you want us to remain silent.”

“Not as bad as that,” he lied. “I want your silence in exchange for keeping Vanessa out of the political arena. I want to hide her away until this whole affair has died down.”

“And until Black Joe gets what he wants and feels secure?”

“You could put it like that.”

“I do… How can I be sure that you will not kill Vanessa, anyway?”

“I could arrange for you to write to Vanessa and she to you.”

Jenny stifled a sob. “I don’t even know her handwriting. You could get anyone to write the letters.”

“You can have photographs also.”

Jenny threw her whisky glass against the wall. “Your rapists have done their work. You must know that I have no idea what she looks like!”

“Then I will even arrange for you to meet her regularly.” Ingram remained calm, damnably calm.

“But I still won’t know her,” said Jenny desperately, “because I never did know her. You would be able to pass off any obliging little zombie as Vanessa.”

Denzil Ingram played his ace. “If you are as telepathically close to her as our investigations suggest, you will know her. You will find a way of knowing her. If
there is any doubt, you can have her independently probed.”

“I see. Give me some whisky, please. I’m sorry I’m making a scene. I hate scenes. But then it is not every day that one is coolly threatened with murder… In any case, even if I agreed to remain silent, how could you be sure I would keep my promise?”

Ingram gave her the whisky. “I have the necessary insurance, Mrs Pargetter. If you were so foolish as to try to prove that Vanessa exists, she would have to die. Already, as you know, contingency plans have required us to destroy all known records. There is now no record of Vanessa’s’ birth. Her data has been expunged from all relevant computer storage systems. Legally, and for all practical purposes, she is now a girl who never was. It is easy to dispose of someone who does not exist. You take my point?”

“I take your point, damn you. But what of the time when Vanessa is no longer of political significance? Will you let her go?”

“Yes, but she will have to have a new identity. There should be no difficulty about that.”

“Then I accept your bargain, Mr. Ingram. I loathe it, and I loathe myself. But I want Vanessa to live, and so I accept.”

“That is very wise, Mrs. Pargetter. Very sensible. I am so sorry you have had such a rough time. You and your husband will be able to leave shortly. Naturally, you will be under some kind of surveillance for a while; but you will never notice it, I assure you.”

“And Vanessa?”

“Don’t worry about Vanessa. We shall pick her up and look after her very carefully. She will be treated well. You will see her soon, then you can judge for yourself.”

Denzil
Ingram sounded utterly sincere. That was one of his great strengths. He could always make himself sound utterly sincere.

There was no indication that he had already mentally signed death warrants for Jenny and Simon Pargetter. All he needed was a little time—enough time to take Vanessa out. Jenny Pargetter would give him that time because she believed him. And when Vanessa was dead, all would be well. The Pargetters could meet with a sad accident—with plenty of irreproachable witnesses—and then the case of Vanessa Smith would be closed for ever.

Professor Raeder had gathered his little group together for a final briefing. He looked at them carefully. They did not look very formidable. In fact they looked ridiculously young, ridiculously stupid, ridiculously ineffectual and—in the case of Quasimodo—somewhat grotesque. But he also saw them as something else: as components of a great psychological machine of destruction; a machine that would destroy the government of the United Kingdom and give Professor Raeder the power he had craved for so long. There remained the problem of the missing component—the vital mechanism that would bring the machine to life. It would have to be obtained quickly.

“So, my children, our campaign of terror has not yet yielded results. I do not entirely blame you, though I must confess to some disappointment. The interference did not help, of course. It came at a time when Vanessa lacked confidence in her powers to reject. Alas, it also reinforced her, renewed her determination to resist our onslaught.”

He smiled benevolently. “Judging from the immediate effects on Quasimodo and Janine—which, I am happy
to say, produced no permanent damage—the sender was emitting signals of quite exceptional strength. This leads me to conclude either that he possessed paranormal resources of unprecedented power, or that he had used one of the few booster drugs, possibly Amplia Nine. The latter is more probable. In which case, our interfering friend will live to regret his extravagance. However, this is beside the point.

“Time, my young friends, is our enemy. Vanessa will not come to us. Therefore we must go to Vanessa. I will take Quasimodo and Janine. The rest of you will stay here. As we travel south, we shall take fixes. Telefixes are difficult but not impossible. I think we shall be able to ascertain where Vanessa is hiding. We already have impressions of hills and woodland and luxuriant countryside. A sea of bluebells was the last reported visual. I think it is important. Also, I have been able to chart Vanessa’s most probable route from Random Hill.”

Professor Raeder paused. “To those of you who remain here, let me give a final word of warning. Do not try to escape. Being a person of some foresight, as you know, I have surrounded this house with buried proximity mines which can be activated or de-activated electronically. When I and Quasimodo and Janine take the hovercar south, I shall activate the mines. I would not recommend any of you to try to walk more than twenty metres from the house… You have ample stores of food, and I do not expect we shall be away very long. Alfred, you are in charge and accountable. You know how our defence system works; but you are not to use it without first consulting me through Janine or Quasimodo. One or the other will remain open to you most of the time. Incidentally, I will make routine contact with you once every three hours.

“I ask
no more than that you should behave sensibly for two, perhaps three days. Is that too much to ask?”

“No, sir,” said Alfred dutifully.

“So,” said Professor Raeder cheerfully. “We will now proceed to acquire our burning glass.”

T
HE MAN WHO
had conditioned himself to become Oliver Anderson had driven back to his secluded cottage with a strange and satisfying sense of homecoming. The house had never felt like a home before. But now it did; and that was entirely due to the presence of Vanessa. She was the first person he had met about whom he cared not professionally but personally, deeply personally. He told himself that the age gap was too great. They were separated by nearly twenty years. It did not seem to matter.

Did he regard her as a woman whom he might bed or as a child whom he might cherish? He did not know. He chose not to know. The disturbing fact of love was sufficient unto itself.

It was late morning when he got back to the cottage. The tri-di he had bought was a small portable model with a built-in permanent atomic power source. The holopix it displayed lacked the high definition of a lounge tri-di; but that did not matter. The tri-di was simply a necessary window through which could be observed some, at least, of the discreetly exposed machinations of Sir Joseph Humboldt.

Oliver had also bought a great deal of food not because he was anticipating any kind of siege or
difficulty in obtaining further supplies but because he wished to leave Vanessa alone as little as possible.

He was not greatly surprised by her absence upon his return. The sky was blue, the sun was bright, the air was warm. He was glad that she was out in the woods enjoying an almost perfect spring day. She had told him of her terrifying experiences during the night, and he had chided her, gently, for not calling him. He had made her promise that, if there were any further nocturnal invasions, she would tell him immediately. His professional mind—still active and acute, despite his assumption of a new role—told him that the invaders wanted to possess Vanessa, wanted to use her for some purpose yet to be revealed. He was filled with apprehension at their persistence and at the methods they used. But he was also partly reassured by the fact that they could not know where she was, simply because Vanessa did not know where she was.

She had told him also about Dugal’s intervention. He was glad that she had a friend, even if only a small boy. But he was filled with anxiety that she had freely opened to Dugal. Even if the boy was absolutely loyal, it was placing too much responsibility upon him. But, then, the strength of his signals apparently was such that even if Vanessa had not opened, he could have pushed through her blocks and learned whatever he wanted to learn. According to Vanessa, Dugal had never been able to send so powerfully before. He had told her he had been given a shot—which pointed to a booster drug, possibly Amplia Nine. And if that were the case, how long would the child Dugal be able to hold out against those who were using him so unscrupulously to obtain information? Not long, decided the professional ghost who lived inside Oliver Anderson. They would know if he was holding back, and they
would simply stick a needle into his arm. Then, in a very short time, Humboldt’s minions would be thoroughly acquainted with the eccentricities of one Roland Badel.

He looked at the groceries he had bought. They were superfluous, he realised. He should have thought the situation out hours ago—and made positive plans. One thing was clear. He and Vanessa would have to start moving—and keep on the move until the crisis was over. Until no one was interested any longer in the fate of Vanessa Smith. Tomorrow, he decided, they would begin to travel. Vanessa had talked wistfully of calm stretches of water, of mountains and forests of pine trees. Such things could be found in Scotland. Perhaps it would be a good idea to get lost in the North West Highlands…

Methodically, he unpacked the groceries and put them away, the perishables in the fridge, the irradiated fresh food on the cold slab in the larder. It was something to do. Something to do until Vanessa returned. When she came back, he would have a serious talk with her. They would face possibilities, probabilities, facts. He knew beyond any shadow of a doubt that he did not want to lose her, ever. A strange, sensation for one who had been determined to reject the world and any emotional involvement with people. But a fact to be faced, along with the fact of Dugal and his vulnerability, along with the fact of the sinister unknowns who were fighting for possession of Vanessa’s mind.

He looked at the clock, and was amazed to discover that the time was almost one-thirty. He had told Vanessa that he would return by one o’clock. She had agreed to be back by then. She wore a wristwatch. But the day was full of sunshine, full of warmth. No doubt she was entranced by the magical carpet of bluebells he had
shown her. Very likely she was absorbed in picking an armful to bring back to the house to fill it with their subtle but transient fragrance. He decided to go and look for her. He had shown her how far she could go. It would not take long to find her.

It did not take long to find her.

She was still lying where she had fallen among the bluebells; but she was no longer unconscious. Her body was shaken by a terrible and almost noiseless sobbing.

He knelt by her, gently lifted her shoulders, looked at her tear-stained face and held her head against his chest, stroking her hair.

“Vanessa, what is it? What’s happened? Tell me about it, little one. Please tell me about it.”

For a few seconds, she was unable to speak. Each time she opened her mouth, the tears welled from her eyes, her body shook and there was a great tightness in her throat—because she did not want to hear the words she would have to use. The words that would make Dugal’s death a fact, a part of history.

Finally, she managed to control herself. Finally she managed to say: “Dugal is dead. Oh, Oliver, he killed himself for my sake. I was with him. I saw where he was. I felt him die. Poor Dugal… Poor, trusting Dugal.”

And then, somehow, she managed to tell what had happened. She told it coherently, almost unemotionally, as if she were relating a nightmare. Which, perhaps, it was. A nightmare tragedy in a nightmare world.

Oliver said nothing for a while. He just held her close, stroking her hair, thinking of the misery she had suffered and of the loneliness and the fear that had dominated so much of her young life.

At length he said softly: “I was afraid of Dugal. I was afraid of your relationship with him. I was afraid
he would betray you. I thought of him simply as a gifted but defenceless child. But now I, who was supposed to know about the workings of the mind, learn that a small boy may achieve the strength, the stature and the courage of a man—simply because he loves someone. I am humbled. I and my kind have been treating people as if they were no more than complicated machines. We have been trying to dehumanise the race of man. It seems now that we need to learn from those we have been trying to corrupt.”

Vanessa managed a sad smile. “That is the voice of a ghost. The Oliver Anderson I know is only interested in painting, drinking and laying.”

He seized gratefully upon her gentle reproof and attempted lightness. “You are right, love,” he said, dropping into a northern accent, “I’m a dedicated man—and, like all great artists, essentially I’m a simple man. All I want to do is paint, booze and lay in peace and without interference from the bloody philistines. So, tomorrow, we’ll move away from here. We’ll lose ourselves properly. We’ll find somewhere that’s far away from all the cities. And then we’ll take up the simple life for real—painting, boozing and laying.” He helped her up. “Come on home, Vanessa. There is work to be done. Some packing and some thinking.”