The Doomsday Conspiracy (14 page)

The voice at the other end of the phone said, "If the pictures are good enough, we might run them as an example of a clever hoax, andMothershed said waspishly, "It so happens that this is no hoax. I have the names of nine reputable witnesses who will testify that it's real, including a priest." The man's tone changed.

"Oh? And where were these pictures taken?"

"Never mind," Mothershed said cagily. He was not going to let them trick him into giving away any information.

"Are you interested?"

The voice said cautiously, "If you can prove that the pictures are authentic, yes, we would be very interested." Damn right you would, Mothershed thought gleefully.

"I'll get back to you." He hung up. The other two phone calls were just as satisfactory. Mothershed had to admit to himself that getting the names and addresses of the witnesses had been a stroke of pure genius. There was no way now that anyone could accuse him of trying to perpetrate a fraud. These pictures were going to appear on the front pages of every important newspaper and magazine in the world. With my credit: Photographs by Leslie Mothershed. As Mothershed left the restaurant, he could not resist walking up to the booth where the two stars were seated.

"Excuse me, I'm sorry to bother you, but would you give me your autographs?"

Roger Moore and Michael Caine smiled up at him pleasantly. They scribbled their names on pieces of paper and handed them to the photographer.

"Thank you."

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When Leslie Mothershed got outside, he savagely tore up the autographs and threw them away.

Screw them! he thought. I'm more important than they are. obert took a taxi to Whitechapel. They drove through the City, the business section of London, heading east until they reached the Whitechapel Road, the area made infamous a century earlier by Jack the Ripper. Along the Whitechapel Road were dozens of outside stalls selling everything from clothing to fresh vegetables to carpets. As the taxi neared Mothershed's address, the neighborhood became more and more dilapidated. Graffiti was scrawled all over the peeling, brownstone buildings. They passed the Weaver's Arms Pub. That would be Mothershed's local, Robert thought. Another sign read: Walter Bookmaker. ... Mothershed probably places his bets on horses there. They finally reached 213A Grove Road. Robert dismissed the taxi and studied the building in front of him. It was an ugly two-story building that had been divided into small flats. Inside was the man who had a complete list of the witnesses Robert had been sent to find. Leslie Mothershed was in the living room poring over his windfall when the doorbell rang. He looked up, startled, filled with a sudden inexplicable fear. The ring was repeated.

Mothershed scooped up his precious photographs and hurried into the converted darkroom. He slipped the pictures into a pile of old prints, then walked back into the living room and opened the front door. He stared at the stranger who stood there.

"Yes?"

"Leslie Mothershed?"

"That's right. What can I do for you?"

"May I come in?"

"I don't know. What is this about?"

Robert pulled out a Defence Ministry identification card and flashed it.

"I'm here on official business, Mr. Mothershed. We can either talk here or at the ministry." It was a bluff. But he could see the sudden fear on the photographer's face.

Leslie Mothershed swallowed.

"I don't know what you're talking about, but-come in." Robert entered the drab room. It was shabby-genteel, dreary, not a place where anyone would live by choice.

"Would you kindly explain what you're doing here?" Mothershed put the proper note of innocent exasperation in his voice.

"I'm here to question you about some photographs you took." He knew it! He had known it from the moment he heard the bell. Page 81

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The bastards are going to try to take my fortune away from me. Well, I'm not going to let them do it.

"What photographs are you talking about?" Robert said patiently, "The ones you took at the site of the UFO crash." Mothershed stared at Robert a moment, as though caught by surprise, and then forced a laugh.

"Oh, those! I wish I had them to give to you."

"You did take those pictures?"

"I tried."

"What do you mean ... you tried?"

"The bloody things never came out." Mothershed gave a nervous cough.

"My camera fogged. That's the second time that's happened to me." He was babbling now.

"I even threw out the negatives. They were no good. It was a complete waste of film. And you l::now how expensive film is these days." He's a bad liar, Robert thought. He's on the edge of panic. Robert said sympathetically, "Too bad. Those photographs would have been very helpful." He said nothing about the list of passengers. If Mothershed lied about the photographs, he would lie about the list. Robert glanced around. The photographs and the list had to be hidden here somewhere. They shouldn't be difficult to find.

The flat consisted of a small living room, a bedroom, a bathroom, and what looked like a door to a utility closet. There was no way he could force the man to hand over the material. He had no real authority. But he wanted those photographs and the list of witnesses before the 515

came and took them away. He needed that list for himself.

"Yes."

Mothershed sighed.

"Those pictures would have been worth a fortune."

"Tell me about the spaceship," Robert said. Mothershed gave an involuntary shudder. The eerie scene was fixed in his mind forever.

"I'll never forget it," he said.

"The ship seemed to-to pulsate, like it was alive. There was something evil about it. And then there were these two dead aliens inside."

"Can you tell me anything about the passengers on the bus?" Sure I can, Mothershed gloated to himself. I have all their names and addresses.

"No, I'm afraid I can't." Moth-1 ershed went on, talking to conceal his nervousness.

"The reason I can't help you with the passengers is that I wasn't on that bus. They were all strangers."

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"I see. Well, thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Mothershed. I appreciate it. Sorry about your pictures."

"So am I," Mothershed said. He watched the door close behind the stranger and thought happily, I've done it! I've outsmarted the sonsol'bitches.

Outside in the hall, Robert was examining the lock on the door. A Chubb. And an old model. It would take him seconds to open it. He would start surveillance in the middIe of the night and wait for the photographer to leave the flat in the morning. Once I have the list of passengers in my possession, the rest of the assignment will be simple. Robert checked into a small hotel near Mothershed's flat and telephoned General Hilliard.

"I have the name of the English witness, General."

"Just a moment. All right. Go ahead, Commander."

"Leslie Mothershed. He lives in Whitechapel, at 213A Grove Road."

"Excellent. I'll arrange for the British authorities to speak to him." Robert did not mention the passenger list or the photographs. Those were his aces in the hole.

* * * Reggie's Fish and Chip Shop was located in a little cul-de-sac off the Brompton Road. It was a small establishment with a clientele made up mainly of clerks and secretaries who worked in the neighborhood. Its walls were covered with football posters, and the parts that were exposed had not seen fresh paint since the Suez conflict. The phone behind the counter rang twice before it was answered by a large man dressed in a greasy wool sweater. The man looked like a typical East Ender except for a gold-rimmed monocle fixed tightly in the socket of his leff eye. The reason for the monocle was apparent to anyone who looked closely at the man: His other eye was made of glass and of a color blue that was generally seen on travel posters.

"Reggie here."

"This is the Bishop."

"Yes, sir," said Reggie, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"Our client's name is Mothershed. Christian tag, Leslie. Resides at 213A Grove Road. We need this order filled quickly. Understood?"

"It's already done, sir."

eslie Mothershed was lost in a golden daydream. He was being interviewed by members of the world press. They were asking him about the huge castle he had just bought in Scotland, his chateau in the South of France, his enormous yacht.

"And is it true that the Queen has invited you to become the official royal photographer?"

"Yes. I said I would let her know. And now, ladies and gentlemen, if you will all excuse me, I'm late for my show at the B.C....', His reverie was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell. He looked at his watch. Eleven o'clock. Has that man returned? He walked over to the Page 83

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door and cautiously opened it. In the doorway stood a man shorter than Mothershed (that was the first thing he noticed about him), with thick glasses and a thin, sallow face.

"Excuse me," the man said diffidently.

"I apologize for disturbing you at this hour. I live just down the block. The sign outside says you're a photographer."

"So?"

"Do you do passport photos?"

Leslie Mothershed do passport photos? The man who is about to own the world? That is like asking Michelangelo to paint the bathroom.

"No," he said rudely. He started to close the door.

"I really hate to bother you, but I'm in a terrible jam. My plane leaves for Tokyo at eight o'clock in the morning, and a little while ago when I took out my passport, I saw that somehow my photograph had been torn loose. It's missing. I've looked everywhere. They won't let me on the plane without a passport photo." The little man was near tears.

"I'm sorry," Mothershed said.

"I can't help you."

"I'd be willing to pay you a hundred pounds." A hundred pounds?

Toaman withacas the andachateau and a yacht? It's an insult. The pathetic little man was going on.

"I could go even higher. Two hundred or three hundred. You see, I really must be on that plane or I'll lose my job." Three hundred pounds to take a passport picture? Not including the developing, it would take about 10 seconds. Mothershed began to calculate. That came to 1,800 pounds a minute. Eighteen hundred pounds a minute was 10,800 pounds an hour. If he worked an eight-hour day, that would be 94,400 pounds a day. In one week, that would come to

"Will you do it?"

Mothershed's ego jockeyed with his greed, and greed won out. I can use a bit of pocket money.

"Come in," Mothershed said.

"Stand against that wall."

"Thank you. I really appreciate this." Mothershed wished he had a Polaroid camera. That would have made it so simple. He picked up his Vivitar and said, "Hold still." Ten seconds later it was done.

"It will take a while to develop it," Mothershed said.

"If you come back in-"

"If you don't mind, I'll wait."

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"Suit yourself."

Mothershed took the camera into the darkroom, put it into the black bag, turned off the overhead light, switched on the red light, and removed the film. He would do this in a hurry. Passport pictures always looked terrible anyway. Fifteen minutes later, as Mothershed was timing the film in the developer tanks, he began to smell smoke. He paused. Was it his imagination? No. The smell was getting stronger. He turned to open the door. It seemed to be stuck.

Mothershed pushed against it. It held fast.

"Hello," he called out.

"What's happening out there?"

There was no response.

"Hello?"

He pressed his shoulder against the door, but there seemed to be something heavy on the other side of it keeping it closed.

"Mister?"

There was no answer. The only sound he could hear was a loud crackling noise. The smell of smoke was becoming overpowering. The flat was on fire. That's probably why he left. He must have gone to get help. Leslie Mothershed slammed his shoulder against the door, but it would not budge.

"Help!" he screamed.

"Get me out of here!"

Smoke was starting to pour under the door, and Mothershed could feel the heat of the flames beginning to lick at it. It was getting difficult to breathe. He was starting to choke. He tore at his collar, gasping for air. His lungs were burning. He was beginning to lose consciousness. He sank down on his knees.

"Oh, God, please don't let me die now. Not now that I'm going to be rich and famous...."

"Reggie here."

"Was the order filled?"

"Yes, sir. A bit overcooked but delivered on time."

"Excellent."

When Robert arrived at Grove Road at two o'clock in the morning to begin his surveillance, he was confronted with an enormous traffic jam. The street was filled with official vehicles, a fire engine, ambulances, and three police cars. Robert pushed his way through the crowd of bystanders and hurried over to the center of activity. The whole building had been engulfed by the fire. From the outside he could see that the first-floor flat occupied by the photographer had been completely gutted.

"How did it happen?"

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Robert asked a fireman.

"We don't know yet. Stand back, please."

"My cousin lives in that flat. Is he all right?"

"I'm afraid not." His tone became sympathetic.

"They're just taking him out of the building now." Robert watched as two ambulance attendants pushed a gurney carrying a body into the ambulance.

"I was staying with him," Robert said.

"All my clothes are in there. I'd like to go in andThe fireman shook his head.

"It wouldn't do you any good, sir. There's nothing left of the flat but ashes."

Nothing left but ashes. Including the photographs and the precious list of passengers with their names and addresses.

So much for fucking serendipity, Robert thought bitterly. In Washington Dustin Thornton was having lunch with his father-in-law in the lavish private dining room in Willard Stone's offices. Dustin Thornton was nervous. He was always nervous in the presence of his powerful fatherin-law.