Prisoner of Fire (8 page)

So Denzil Ingram was delegating as little as possible of the investigation to other hands.

“Mrs. Pargetter,” he said, “I really am sorry to have to trouble you. But it is important. Do you have any knowledge of the whereabouts of your daughter?”

She drank her gin and tonic in one. “She doesn’t exist,” said Jenny in a shrill voice. “According to Sir Joseph Humboldt, there is no such person as Vanessa Smith.”

Ingram shrugged. “Bureaucracy. You know what records are like. In this automatic world of ours, computers sometimes spit out idiocies.”

Jenny looked at Simon. “Give me another drink, please.”

“Yes, darling. But remember you have had your pills.’

“Pills?” said Ingram. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were ill, Mrs. Pargetter.”

“Sedatives,” said Simon quickly. “My wife has been rather tense recently. And this business doesn’t help. You understand?”

“I do indeed. I’m very sorry that I have to bother her at such a time… Mrs. Pargetter, do you know where Vanessa is?”

“She’s nowhere,” answered Jenny, thickly. “Black Joe says so, and he always tells the truth… Do you know what I did this afternoon, Mr. Ingram? No, of course you don’t. I went to Somerset House to check on her birth entry. It wasn’t there.”

“The system isn’t perfect,” said Ingram. “No doubt Sir Joseph’s young men had similar difficulties. Perhaps that accounts for the answer he gave in the House.”

“Please
don’t treat me like an idiot,” said Jenny, her face white. “You know that Vanessa exists. You traced me. Why didn’t you tell Joe Humboldt she exists?”

“Parliamentary matters are not my concern, Mrs. Pargetter. It is only my duty to find Vanessa if possible, and see that no harm comes to her. Can you help me?”

Jenny downed the second gin and tonic. “Help you! You are one of Black Joe’s men. I wouldn’t help you to find a taxi.”

“Please excuse her, Mr. Ingram,” said Simon anxiously. “This is a trying time. My wife, as you can see, is under some stress. Perhaps you could come back tomorrow morning? I’m sure Jenny will feel better then.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Time is important to us, as you will appreciate.”

Jenny gave a brittle laugh. “I have just thought of something. We still live in a democracy. Humboldt can’t have it all his own way yet. I’ll call a press conference and tell everybody that I’m Vanessa’s mother. I’ll tell them all I know, and—“

“Just what do you know, Mrs. Pargetter?” Ingram struck like a snake.

Simon, alert to all the implications, cast a despairing look at his wife. Jenny was in no mood for caution.

“Attend the press conference, and find out.”

Ingram sighed. “There will be no press conference, Mrs. Pargetter. If there were, you would simply be discredited as a neurotic woman. Officially, your daughter does not exist. But there will be no press conference.”

Simon put a hand on Jenny’s shoulder, trying to reassure her, trying to calm her, trying to restrain her. But she was in no mood for restraint.

Again she laughed. “I am a free citizen. I have
committed no crime. Try and stop me. Let us see who will be discredited.”

Even before she had finished speaking, Denzil Ingram pressed a button on a small electronic device he had in his pocket. He was not happy. This was going to be one of those jobs where everything had to be done the hard way.

Simon Pargetter, not knowing that it was already too late, did his best to avert the collision. “My wife is overwrought, Mr. Ingram. Perhaps if I were to talk to her alone for a few minutes, it would—” He never completed his sentence.

There was a noise at the door, a dull plop. Then the door opened and four men burst into the flat. When they saw Denzil Ingram sitting calmly in his chair, they stood still, as if awaiting orders. Jenny gazed at them open-mouthed. Simon seemed numbed.

“Mr. Pargetter,” said Ingram, “I really am sorry about this, but your wife’s attitude leaves me no choice. I cannot afford to take risks.”

“What are these men doing here?” stormed Jenny. “Get them out! Get them out of my home! I’m going to bring a criminal charge against you for this.”

“Jenny,
please.
You’re making it worse.” Simon Pargetter had enough grip on reality to know what was happening.

Denzil Ingram stood up. “Mrs. Pargetter, I am taking you and your husband into protective custody. You will both be well looked after in comfortable surroundings. Perhaps you would like to pack a few things.”

“Protective custody!” Jenny screamed. “Who are these people—Black Joe’s thugs?” She flung her empty glass at him. Her aim was good, and Ingram was caught by surprise. The glass shattered on his forehead, leaving a small cut.

Jeez
, I’m getting old, he told himself. You can never tell with women. One of the snatch team had drawn a gun. Ingram motioned to him to put it away. Then he took out a handkerchief and dabbed at the blood he felt trickling down towards his left eye.

“Mrs. Pargetter, I am convinced you know something about Vanessa. It may be important, or it may not. You will have to be probed.”

“You can’t do that,” said Simon angrily. “You don’t have the power.”

Ingram gave a faint smile. “You would be amazed to know what powers I have, Mr. Pargetter. You really would. Now, let’s not waste any more time.”

Dr. Lindemann broke the ampoule and quickly filled his hypodermic syringe. Dugal sat passively on the chair, staring out through the window. There were dark circles round his eyes. A growing child needs quite a lot of sleep. Dugal had had very little during the past three days.

Lindemann was not naturally callous. He knew that the boy was near to exhaustion; and he had tried to use some of his other star paranormals to ease the burden. But Dugal, he knew, was the only one who could effectively reach Vanessa. Dugal, at his best, and with the will, could pass all her blocks and go in deep.

The scientist knew now that his professional future depended on producing results. He, certainly, was not unaware of the extraordinary powers of Denzil Ingram. He was sorry for Dugal. But, in a matter of survival, the ancient law obtained:
sauve qui peut.

Dugal knew what Dr. Lindemann was doing. But he did not want to see the needle. It was natural. The effect of the injection had been explained to him—as
well as it is possible to explain a complicated biochemical process to a small child.

He knew that he was going to get a shot of a wonder drug called Amplia Nine. Dr. Lindemann had told him that it would make him feel full of energy, full of life, that it would destroy tiredness and make him feel that he could do anything he wanted to do.

What Dr. Lindemann had not told him was that Amplia Nine—a spin-off from hallucinogenic research—would temporarily amplify his mental talents. Also Dr. Lindemann neglected to inform him that this short-term magnification of his natural abilities would eventually be paid for by the destruction of several million of his brain cells.

Research has shown that one shot of Amplia Nine would reduce the Intelligence Quotient of an average person by five to seven points. A second shot would reduce it by eight to fifteen points. A third shot would produce, in the end, a moron.

“Well, Dugal?”

“I’m ready, Dr. Lindemann.” Dugal held out his arm, but still looked out through the window. “You promise it will help Vanessa?”

“Yes, I promise.” Lindemann pressed the needle into the boy’s arm.

Dugal flinched, but he did not complain.

“For the next hour,” said Dr. Lindemann, “you will feel a little drowsy. But after that you will be wide awake and stronger than you have ever been before. When that happens, I want you to concentrate on reaching Vanessa. She may have blocks, but I don’t think they will bother you. I want you to go in deep and find out everything you can. Remember, we need to know where she is, we need to know if she is safe, we want to help her.”

Dugal
yawned. His arm was itching somewhat, but it did not seem to matter.

“I’ll probe her,” he said. “But can I talk to her?”

“Talk to her?”

“Explain that we all want to help her.”

Dr. Lindemann smiled. “Talk to her, by all means, Dugal. But remember that she may not believe what you say. Personally, I think that she has been very ill. The important thing is for you to remember everything. Do you understand?”

Dugal yawned once more. “I understand, Dr. Lindemann. But will Vanessa understand?”

Professor Raeder was in a didactic mood. He confronted his small group of paranormals as if they were students in tutorial—which, perhaps, they were.

But, such students! Quasimodo, childish, yet telepathically lethal; Janine, twenty years old and the oldest in the group, a voyeur nymphomaniac and a probe of quite exceptional powers; Alfred, seventeen, a raw-boned youth and an extrovert who could break almost any block or throw up a wall that would stop anyone, including Janine; Robert, eleven, whose powers of telepathic suggestion were, as far as Professor Raeder knew, unique; Sandra, nine, a telehypnotist of erratic brilliance.

“As I see it,” said Professor Raeder, “the situation is of classic simplicity. It is a case of Mahomet and the mountain. We, collectively, are Mahomet, Vanessa Smith is the mountain. We must call her to come to us. We must use every means—persuasion, hypnotic suggestion, terror. We must build in her a compulsion to come to the Scottish Highlands. But, if that fails, we must be prepared to go to her. She is the burning glass we need. She is the one who can accept your
transmissions and focus them into a tight beam. She is the one who will enable your combined talents to destroy this creature Humboldt. From now on, you will conduct an assault on Vanessa around the clock. It will be done in relays. Janine will weaken her—soften her up, I believe, is the phrase. Then Alfred will block undesirable contacts while Sandra and Robert combine to make her come to us. That there are flaws in this programme, I am aware. We do not know precisely where Vanessa is.

“We do not know this because she herself does not know it. But we do know that she has comfortable surroundings, that she is physically fit and that she feels secure. We know that she is in a country cottage and that she is being protected—if that is the right word—by an artist who calls himself Oliver Anderson. We have found all these things in Vanessa’s mind.”

“He hasn’t screwed her,” interrupted Janine. “I would have known if he had.” She gave a twisted smile. “Even if I didn’t have it with her at the time, I would have known.”

“Dear Janine,” said Professor Raeder in a deceptively gentle tone, “we are all painfully aware of your major interest in life. Please do not let it intrude upon rational discussion of a problem. Otherwise, I may be reluctantly compelled to apply electrodes to your temples.”

Janine blanched at the threat. “I thought it was important,” she said defensively. “If he screws her properly, she won’t have any blocks left. Then we get a clear picture.”

“Janine, the crudity of your expression is matched only by your inability to concentrate upon anything but personal gratification.” The Professor’s voice hardened. “You really will have to control yourself, my dear. I can assure you that the threat of electro-convulsive
therapy is not an idle threat… Now where was I?”

Sandra, munching peanuts, said helpfully: “Things we found in Vanessa’s mind.”

“Ah, yes. From the data you have supplied, my children, certain deductions may be made about this Mr. Anderson. We know he has some facial disfigurement. That knowledge is something Vanessa cannot cancel. We have also learned that, at the beginning, there was some confusion about his name and profession. Vanessa has constructed a deep block about this; and that, in itself, is interesting. Let us consider two hypothesis: one is that Mr. Anderson may be very intelligent, the other is that he may not be what he claims to be.”

Alfred, smoking pot, was sufficiently with proceedings to say: “Suppositions aren’t going to help us, Prof. We need the hard stuff.”

Professor Raeder rubbed his hands together and smiled benevolently. “Are they not, Alfred, my boy? Are they not? Let us see. Let us try association of ideas. For example, what does the name Oliver suggest to you? Come on, tell me. No matter how ridiculous, tell me.”

There was silence for a moment or two. Then Sandra, helping herself to more peanuts, said uncertainly: “Biscuits?”

Professor Raeder felt happy. For a short time he really could imagine himself back in tutorial with a handful of picked students. “Very good, Sandra. Bath Olivers are a kind of biscuit which I, personally, find very civilised… Now, any other associations?”

Again there was a silence. Then Robert, who was not eating peanuts or smoking pot or dwelling upon orgasms
he had experienced vicariously, said with some hesitation: “Roland.”

Professor Raeder seemed both surprised and delighted. “Ah, yes. Roland! Why did you say Roland, dear boy?”

Robert looked blank. “Don’t know, Prof. It just seemed to come, that’s all.”

Raeder exuded triumph. None of the young paranormals could really understand his peculiar moods—which, perhaps, was one of the reasons he maintained his power over them. They knew he was exceptionally clever and somewhat vindictive. He had a great talent for dividing and conquering, also a talent for devising peculiarly apt punishments.

Janine tried a gentle flash probe, and was instantly rewarded with a mental picture of herself, unconscious, jerking horrifically under the stimulus of electro-convulsive therapy. She turned pale.

“Don’t try that again, Janine,” the Professor said softly. “You have been repeatedly warned of the penalties for attempting to invade my privacy. You are courting disaster.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said meekly. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“Maintain that condition, by all means,” he responded icily. “I am here to do your thinking for you. But never,
never
disobey. That is my final warning…” He turned to the others. “Now why should Oliver be associated with Roland?”

No one knew. Robert felt he ought to know; but he didn’t. Surreptitiously, he began to masturbate, out of sheer anxiety.

“Charlemagne,” said Professor Raeder, “was king of the Franks about twelve centuries ago. He had two great knights, or generals, equally matched in fighting
strength. One was called Oliver, and the other—”