Prisoner of Fire (18 page)

Vanessa thought for a moment. “No. It would be broader.”

“Precisely, And therefore less intense. But suppose I used a laser beam—a beam of coherent light?”

“It would retain its intensity,” said Vanessa, suddenly perceiving what Professor Raeder was getting at.

“Precisely. Now, in telergetic terms, you have the capacity of changing a conventional beamed transmission into a coherent beamed transmission. In short, Vanessa, if telergy is channelled through you, you will be even better than a lens. You will transform it into a kind of telepathic laser beam… Sir Joseph Humboldt, unlike Dr. Badel, is far from us in physical terms.

Moreover,
he is protected by a highly trained group of paranormals who could easily block any weak transmissions. But they will not be able to block a telepathic laser. So, tomorrow evening, we will take Sir Joseph when he least expects it. Tomorrow, I happen to know that, after the dinner he is giving for the Israeli Prime Minister, he will leave Number Ten and spend the night with his mistress. She has a very discreet flat in Belgravia. The dogs will be there, of course. But Sir Joseph will be relaxed. And that is when we will strike.”

“And afterwards? When Sir Joseph is dead?”

Professor Raeder smiled. “Let us think about that when Sir Joseph
is
dead, my dear. Now run along and get some sleep. Tomorrow, you will be given a simple conditioning technique. Then we shall be ready.”

J
ENNY
P
ARGETTER WOKE
up screaming. Simon switched on the light.

“What is it love? What’s happening? Did you have a nightmare?”

“Yes, I had a nightmare.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Vanessa. She is in the hands of a madman. He is called Reader or Raeder. Something like that. He has a collection of terrifying children—not his. Children who have escaped from schools for paranormals. It’s in Scotland, I think.”

“Raeder,” mused Simon. “The name strikes a bell. There was a scandal some time ago… A parapsychologist… I think he had been doing naughty things with naughty little boys. Something like that… Raeder … Yes that was it. Professor Marius Raeder.”

Jenny gave a deep sigh. “He’s got Vanessa in Scotland. She doesn’t know where, so I don’t know where… This Raeder—he intends to use her to assassinate Black Joe.” Jenny held her head in her hands. “Don’t ask me how. I don’t know how. I only pick up echoes from this child I rejected… Simon, we must call the police, or security, or whatever.”

He looked at her searchingly. “Must we? Why? I thought you didn’t care too much for Black Joe. He is
the one who gave orders for Vanessa to be taken out. So it would be poetic justice if he gets taken out instead.”

Jenny put her hands over her eyes. “Oh, God, I need a drink.”

“Hot milk?”

“Don’t be bloody silly… I’m sorry, darling. Brandy, whisky, vodka—any damn rotgut. Bring the bottle.”

When Simon returned with a bottle of brandy and glasses, he tried to lighten the mood. “How about an orgy? Having an orgy with one’s own wife could be rather trendy.” It was the wrong thing to say.

Jenny withered him with a look. “We have to call the police—or security or whoever. It’s obvious.”

Simon handed her a very large brandy and poured one for himself. “Why is it obvious?”

“Because if Black Joe is killed—and, my God, I wish he’d drop dead from natural and painful causes—it is a stone cold certainty that this Raeder person will be able to pin the blame entirely on Vanessa. Then she will be in a worse fix than ever.”

“She couldn’t be,” Simon pointed out. “Officially, she doesn’t exist and unofficially she has to be killed anyway.” He sipped his brandy and was silent for a few moments. Then he went on: “If Humboldt is killed, the present government will fall. If a general election were held, it’s odds on that Tom Green would come out of it laughing. Can you imagine him giving orders to have Vanessa taken out? More likely she’d get the King’s Pardon, a nominal sentence, and a life peerage within five years.” He laughed. “That would be bloody marvellous, wouldn’t it? Your little long-lost daughter changing the course of history.”

Jenny swallowed her brandy and sat in bed, thinking. “This man Raeder is probably right round the
twist,” she said at length. “But people like that are very cunning. Suppose his plan—whatever it is—succeeds. He might then fix it so that Vanessa takes the entire blame, with him coming out of it looking whiter than white. Alternatively, having used her, he might just kill her. As you pointed out, she does not now officially exist. So how could he get smashed for killing a non-existent girl? No, Simon, much as I would like to see Joe Humboldt dead, we must call the police. It’s Vanessa’s only hope. If they can find her in time, this man Raeder can be made to talk, and her innocence will be established.” She held out her glass for more brandy. “Even a wretch like Humboldt ought to be grateful for having his life saved.”

Simon poured more brandy for Jenny and for himself. “Come back to reality, sweetheart. If we call the police or security now, they just might conceivably trace Vanessa before this crackpot Raeder can put his plans—whatever they are—into operation. In which case, they will quietly eliminate both of them. You must know that as well as I do. But if they don’t find Vanessa until after the deed is done, the result will still be the same. It will take time for Tom Green to gain power and assume authority over the security forces. By the time he is in a position to establish her existence, commend her innocence, etcetera, she will be dead. I do not think posthumous recognition will mean much to her or to you. So, let us not call the police.”

“I am going to.” Jenny gazed at him, white-faced. “It’s her only chance.”

“No, love, you are not.” For once, Simon was adamant. “Because if you do, you and I are both dead. Officially, Vanessa does not exist. If we now claim that she does, Humboldt’s boys will probe us again for information then silence us.” He gave a grim laugh. “Or
do you think they will give us a vote of thanks for being co-operative?”

“I already loathe myself so much I’m not even sure I want to live,” moaned Jenny. “And you are saying that I have to abandon her yet again.”

“It’s the only way to give her a chance.”

“I must do something!”

“Right. We will do something,” said Simon. “We’ll take the hovercar to Scotland and go looking for her.”

“But I don’t know where she is… I can’t even be absolutely sure it is Scotland.”

“You might get more information from her en route—particularly if you try to doze or keep your mind open… I know it’s a lousy gamble, darling. But it is all I can suggest. At least it is something to do.”

“Yes,” echoed Jenny, “at least it is something to do.”

Sir Joseph Humboldt had had a liaison with Maria Mancini for several years. Signora Mancini was the widow of an Italian ambassador who had died in a plane crash shortly after Sir Joseph had begun to take an interest in his wife.

The liaison was an open secret in political and diplomatic circles—the kind of open secret that, in Britain, was whispered about rather than talked about. A gutter-press journalist who had linked their names together in his column less for political idealism than for personal advancement apparently committed suicide three days later. A tri-di anchor man who made some unfortunate allusion during a programme on the Prime Minister’s career went berserk one evening in Oxford Street and was later committed to an asylum for the criminally insane.

Although over the years Sir Joseph had taken and continued to take—despite his advanced years—much
pleasure in the sensual delights afforded by Maria Mancini’s well-endowed and extremely Italian body, he had never felt the slightest inclination to marry her. It would have been politically undesirable. Sir Joseph was by no means handsome, but he knew that he was physically impressive. He had been compared by various political commentators with Lloyd George in his prime. Lloyd George could never have been described as handsome; but he had certainly been magnetic. Sir Joseph knew that he, also, had a similar effect—particularly upon the predatory middle-aged women who, if not the backbone of his party, were certainly its mailed fist. A fat Italian wife, however delightful between the sheets, would have cost him at least a million votes. It was too high a price to pay for pneumatic bliss.

But though Sir Joseph was unwilling to give Signora Mancini the marriage she desperately craved, he had managed to provide her with compensations. She was received at Court, she dined at the best houses, she had unlimited credit and an extraordinary collection of jewellery, and she could use aspiring junior ministers as errand boys. It was something to be seen with the royals at Ascot. It was something to be consulted by the Italian premier about Britain’s policy towards the Middle East oil countries. She was wise enough not to demand too much.

As Sir Joseph called Signora Mancini on the scrambled V-phone in his bedroom, he was wondering not how to counter the Israeli Prime Minister’s protest at Britain’s failure to deliver five nuclear strike submarines because of pressure from the oil-bearing Arab states, but how to cope with a recent and inexplicable loss of sexual potency.

Maria Mancini’s face came on the screen. “Darleeng,” she said.
“How sweet of you to call. I was not expecting it because of thees Israeli business. Is eet a dreadful bore?”

Sir Joseph, as always, was entranced by her accent and her insistence on using British slang that had died with Somerset Maugham.

“It is a dreadful bore, my love. Quite tiresome.” He found himself slipping emphatically into the same kind of idiom. “I shall probably have to concede two submarines by the end of this year, and three by the end of next. Secretly, of course. In public, Mr. Mendelson will scream about betrayal, and in public I shall utter wisely on the balance of power… The dinner should be over by ten, my sweet. I will give instructions that it must be over by ten. Therefore I should be with you by ten-thirty.”

Signora Mancini registered the information about the submarines for transmission to Rome. It might be good for a million new lire. Then she recalled her role as alluring mistress, and made sure that the V-lens caught her bosom. The dress she wore was décolleté—about as décolleté as you could get.

“Will you wish to eat?” she enquired.

“My love,” responded Sir Joseph gallantly, “I will wish to eat you.”

“No. Stupid of me. You will not wish to eat,” she pouted. “However, you may like a spoonful of caviar, perhaps, to be washed down with Veuve Clicquot.”

“My dear, I shall eat you.”

She laughed, a full-throated Italian laugh. “I still have bruises from your last meal.”

Sir Joseph Humboldt picked up his cue, found his exit line. “Unto them that hath shall be given,” he quoted. Then he cut the connection just in case Maria did not understand and required an explanation.

T
HERE SEEMED TO
be
unending fog in Roland Badel’s mind. He could not think very clearly, he could not remember things, he felt desperately tired. Some time ago, a youth—Alfred?—had brought him something to eat and drink. Was it meant to be breakfast or lunch? He didn’t know. Perhaps it was not important. After he had eaten, he had felt more sleepy than ever. He had been thankful just to lie down on his bed and relax. He had an idea that Vanessa had visited him, accompanied by that maniac Raeder. But it could have been a dream. Only a dream.

Groping desperately through the fog, Roland tried to pull himself together. The food or the drink had obviously been drugged. That would be the paranoid professor’s style.

The paranoid professor…

He giggled foolishly.

No! Stop that! Think!

He thought. He thought about Vanessa…

No! No! No! Think!

He slapped his own face savagely in the hope that the
pain would penetrate his mind, clear his wits. He was weak, and he couldn’t hurt himself enough.

There once was…
No!

He had an inspiration. He bit his finger. There seemed to be quite a lot of strength left in his jaws. He bit his finger till the pain seemed to come like an arrow of light through the mental fog. He bit his finger until he wanted to cry out. He bit his finger until he began to cough and splutter as a strange fluid poured down his throat.

After a time he knew what it was. Blood.

That connected. He lay on the bed, weak, sweating, with a finger throbbing where it had been bitten through to the bone. But the fog was lifting. It was like surfacing after a drinking jag. Surfacing the hard way.

He must remember not to eat anything more, not to drink anything more. He would be no good to Vanessa if he were in a perpetual stupor. He would have to get his mind clear and then try to do something. Death or glory.

He laughed weakly.

Death, he had already tried.

The door opened. Enter the paranoid professor. Roland tried to sit up, and fell back.

“Good evening, Dr. Badel… Dear me, we are in a mess, aren’t we? Blood everywhere. What have you been doing, my dear fellow? Ah, biting your fingers, I see. What a curious diversion. We shall have to clean you up. We shall have to get you sensible, also.”

“I am already sensible,” said Roland thickly.

Raeder laughed. “A subjective opinion rather than a professional one. I will return in a few minutes with bandages. It looks as if your finger may need a couple of stitches. You really should not be quite so perverse.”

Roland fainted while his finger was being stitched. He was not out long. He returned to consciousness in
time to see a hypodermic needle being withdrawn from his arm.

“So. You are with us once more. Do not try to move for a while. I have given you a stimulant. Let it do its work. You are shortly going to witness the generation of long-range telergetic euthanasia, Dr. Badel. You should find it very interesting. You will need a clear mind to observe carefully. After all, there is your future to think of.”