The Shepherd File (13 page)

Morrison grunted and sucked on his pipe. He looked unlike a military genius, more like a great shaggy bear, but his eyes were bright and hard.

‘Go on.’

‘You establish your factory,’ said Holmes. ‘You establish your alliances — and neither would be too difficult with the amount of money China has been pouring into Africa. Then, you begin to build up your liberation movement, young Africans, young communists, African freedom movements, young nationalists — you recruit the best of them and establish an iron discipline, because without that you are bound to fail, and you base this on the dedicated, almost religious, movement towards a united African republic, the establishment of a united socialist state of Africa which is the dream of the new world based on the vision of the old — ’

Morrison put down his pipe. 'Wait a moment,’ he said. He frowned. ‘African students?’ He searched his memory. ‘We’ve had a bit of trouble with one or two — political agitation and a bit of drugs — but — ’

‘Don’t start thinking that all African students in London are involved in it or any of that nonsense,’ said Holmes. ‘Most of them are no more irresponsible than most of us and a good many of them are the finest type of serious student you can find anywhere. It’s not those. But somewhere among them have been infiltrated the hard core of the liberation movement, the people who mean business, older ones probably, killers and dedicated men who regard themselves as being here on active service.’

‘We’ve no proof — ’

‘They were at Uplands, Joe — you remember Mrs Wrythe telling us they had Africans — and they were the men who got Shepherd.’

‘Now look here, Holmes, you’re making this up. There’s no shred of evidence against any African — ’

‘Nor will there be, Joe, nor will there be, until it’s too late. But I’ll tell you one thing. The Russians know.’

‘The Russians — ’

‘My dear Joe, do you think the Russians would stop short at one meeting with Nina Lydoevna and Peter Shepherd and leave it at that? When Shepherd was killed, they put every single man they had in this country on to it. Why? Because whatever happened at that meeting, Shepherd gave them the clue. What precisely it was, I don’t know. But it was what they wanted. They’ve been working like beavers ever since. I think they’ve got it. They won’t tell us, of course — why should they pull our chestnuts out of the fire? — but I’m certain that they’ve got it and they’re working on it now.’

‘Good God, Holmes!’ Morrison, in his agitation, leapt to his feet. ‘How can you possibly say that?’

‘Because,’ continued Holmes calmly, ‘I saw Colonel Tirov at the Russian Embassy this evening and offered an exchange of information about Shepherd. They’re not accepting it. That can only mean it’s not worth it. In other words, Joe,’ he said solemnly, ‘they have already found out.’

‘You went to the Russian Embassy?’

‘Yes.’

‘By yourself?’

‘Yes.’

‘To offer an exchange of information?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good God!’

‘Don’t keep on saying good God. It’s old-fashioned — ’

‘Do you realize you were laying yourself open to a charge under the Official Secrets Acts?’

‘My dear Joe,’ said Holmes patiently, ‘the Foreign Office, as you know, closes for the weekend. The Foreign Secretary would be at home. The Prime Minister wouldn’t have done it without consultation. How long — knowing the Foreign Office — would you think that would have taken? More time, I think, than we have.’

‘What did Tirov say?’

‘Tirov,’ said Holmes, ‘was laughing. In a way I like Tirov.’ Tour trouble is you like everybody.’

‘Why not? We are captives of the system.’

‘Captives?’ said Morrison. He stalked to the window and back again. ‘I’ll give you captives,’ he said. ‘You were taking a hell of a risk. If the Foreign Office ever found out not even you could get away with it. You’d be facing a secrets charge of conveying information to the Russians and how the hell could we stop it? You’d be a captive of the system! Don’t think I’m going to stand up at Bow Street for you and give you a good character, because I’m not. Going to the Russian Embassy without one scrap of authority, without even telling me — ’ Morrison was purple with indignation. ‘My God, Holmes — !’

‘Don’t keep on saying that,’ murmured Holmes. ‘It’s wasting time. Tirov is a nice man. He’s like you in some ways except that you haven’t got his sense of humour. You don’t give me whisky.’ Holmes looked aggrieved. ‘Why don’t you give me whisky, Joe? Haven’t you heaven’s impregnated cloths, the dreams to spread under my feet?’

‘Shut up,’ said Morrison. ‘For God’s sake! Where the devil have we got to? The Russians know. All right. What do they know? You’ve been talking in riddles. Now, whatever it is, Holmes — come clean. Tell me precisely and accurately in words of one syllable.’

‘The African underground has a plan.’

‘Right. I’ve got that. You’ve got no proof but I’ve got it.’

‘We know the liberation movement exists, Joe. It’s in the files. What we didn’t know about was its existence in London and that’s because the whole of our attention has been focused on Africa. That’s where all along we’ve been making the fundamental mistake. We’ve even been thinking that the use of LSD was for African governments against their own populations. Nothing is further from the truth. It’s for use against the Europeans. It’s for use against European troops.’ Holmes blinked and passed his hand over his forehead. ‘Troops there are, and not so far from Uplands. It’s in Surrey, is Uplands. Aldershot’s in Hampshire. Uplands is in Surrey.’ He stopped for a moment. ‘And what military establishment,’ he continued ‘is nearer to Uplands than Aldershot?’

Morrison stared.

‘Pirbright,’ said Holmes. ‘Pirbright is in Surrey. The Guards’ Depot is at Pirbright. It’s also another headquarters depot, isn’t it, Joe? For the past few years we’ve had the best parachute brigade in the country training round Pirbright. What’s Pirbright, Joe?’

Morrison moistened his lips. ‘Pirbright,’ he said, ‘is the headquarters of the Strategic Reserve.’

‘Quite right,’ said Holmes. ‘And the Strategic Reserve in this country consists of the Third Infantry Division. What is 3 I D? Why not 3 I D for Third Infantry Division?
Distbn
for distribution. Distribution of the stuff to the Third Infantry Division. Isn’t that what Shepherd meant?’

'Good God,’ said Morrison, sombrely. He stared. He looked blank. 'You know, Holmes, it is damned ingenious. It is really. Very. It all fits beautifully. But what do you mean — distribution?’

'In their drinking water,’ said Holmes.

'Nonsense,’ said Morrison. He stared at Holmes. 'Are you all right?’ he asked, a trace of concern in his voice.

‘Perfectly all right.’

Morrison was irritable. ‘I really don’t know what to make of it. You don’t really believe this, do you, Holmes? Is this one of your extravagant theories which you make up to fit all the facts but which you don’t believe in for a moment. What I’m trying to get at is what you’re really thinking.’ Holmes was silent. He did not move. He continued to stare down in front of him. At length he said:

'In their whisky.’

'There you are, you see!’ said Morrison irritably. ‘That’s what I mean. You’re in a very odd mood. I don’t know whether to take you seriously or not. The trouble is, Holmes — you knew, by the way, didn’t you, that the Chiefs of Staff have been called to Downing Street? Didn’t you know this? You knew it’s about Africa, didn’t you? I mean — this is the point, Holmes. Did you or did you not know? Holmes, my dear chap, are you all right?’

'Perfectly all right,’ said Holmes. 'I’m looking at that marvellous colour on your desk.’

*

The three circles embodied the aureolae of the trinity. Three became six. The three dials on the filing cabinet were surrounded by the circles of numbers, the three dials of security. The dials became the numerical symbols of the aureolae. They became six. They had a blinding cosmic significance. He was transfixed by a sudden and exquisitely sweet understanding. He was Paul on the Damascus road, the light pulsing about him. He was Gautama contemplating the clouds. The grey nipples of the six red and white dials advanced and retreated, hardened with erotic vision, softened with pulsations of life, expanded, contracted, and around them the aureolae of raised red and white skin began slowly to revolve in the permanent revealing dance of creation.

*

‘Get him more black coffee,’ said Morrison. His leathery face was lined with anxiety. ‘I can’t think why he’s staring at the filing cabinet like that.’

Holmes moved. The movement at first was barely perceptible, and then, infinitely slowly, he began to turn, so slowly that the men in the room were apprehensive about what they would see in his face when he turned fully. They shrank from meeting the blank eyes.

Holmes was adjusting his vision from the vision of the dials on the filing cabinet to the vision of the coffee cup with the white friable porcelain passing into the brilliant molecules of the china clay, all shining like a jewelled landscape.

*

Downing Street had been alerted; so had the Ministry of Defence; and so, finally, had been the commanding officer of the Third Infantry Division at Pirbright. Half an hour after the order had been received to prepare to take off came elaborate security instructions about medical tests and a ban on drinking water. The commanding officer got through as far as the Chief of Staff before he was finally convinced that the War Department had not taken leave of its senses.

In Morrison’s room they were giving Holmes injections. Pendlebury was there and Inspector Post and two specialists from Harley Street and the room seemed to be filling up with more people all the time. Morrison was going about saying: ‘We must take precautions. We have to. They wouldn’t dope Holmes for nothing. He knew something. I’m convinced he did. He wouldn’t tell me all that for nothing. Even if it is a false alarm, even if he is wrong, we can’t take the risk. Can we?’ He had said it twice to Downing Street.

Morrison always remembered the nightmare hours that followed the slow collapse of Holmes into stupor across his desk. It was like being tossed about on a whirling sea, always about to sink, never quite going under, being buffeted by wave after wave, choking, drowning, yet somehow surfacing, and all the time the strangely quiet figure of Holmes sitting in the chair by the window staring at the coffee cup, sometimes at the filing cabinet, sometimes at nothing, smiling faintly at his thoughts, wrapt and beatific.

No sooner had one problem presented itself and been dealt with than another, more complex and more intractable, meant the cancellation and revision of the orders already sent out. The Downing Street meeting broke up. The Chief of the Defence Staff and the Prime Minister came to Morrison’s office. The Commissioner of Police, Sir William Arbuthnot, fussed round them like a hen. Somewhere, at the far end of telephone lines, a thousand men of the Third Infantry Division fumed and fretted, were given contradictory orders, were detrained from the lorries taking them to Lyneham airfield, given capability tests, walked along white lines, emptied water bottles.

The tests were negative. Nothing was wrong. The men of the Strategic Reserve, as their commanding officer reported in an explosive voice, were in fighting capability and had been in fighting capability for some hours and could they now go ahead with orders.

There was utter silence when the news came and everyone looked at Morrison; and in the silence came a comment from someone down the far end of the room, a disembodied voice putting everything into its proper perspective, a deflating and debunking voice which said, simply and convincingly:

‘Panic over.’

Morrison turned and caught sight of the faces of the Prime Minister and the Chief of the Defence Staff. The CDS looked black with anger. Everyone was waiting for the Prime Minister to say something. Eventually he did:

‘Am I to understand,’ he said, ‘that it is considered now to have been a false alarm?’

It was at this moment that Holmes, who had been sitting quiescent for some time, woke up. Whether it had been the injections or whether the dose had been a small one and had worn off, no one knew, and in any case it hardly mattered. In the awful silence, Holmes stirred and let loose an audible sigh. Blinking vaguely at the crowd, he said, in a cheerful but foolish voice: ‘Who are all these people?’

Months later Morrison still shivered at the recollection of that moment. Everything froze. Holmes got to his feet. They were staring at him as though they were expecting him to break into a dance, to sing, to do something even more unforgivable. But when he spoke he said in a normal voice: ‘Come on, what are we waiting for? We’ve got to get down to Uplands.’

The
Clinic

There was a faint light from a low-powered bowl in the ceiling. It was like a light in a hospital ward. There were the outlines of a stand, an examination couch, shadows, white shapes.

Monique was aware that she had woken from sleep, that she was absorbing the details of the room, that she had a pain in one arm, a hard feeling in the muscle as though from an injection. She tried to remember what had happened. The last she could remember she had been lying on her bed in the bungalow.

A blazing white light seared into her wide-open eyes from close to her face — a vast light flaring unexpectedly at her from a flat circle of frosted glass, dazzlingly bright, overhead. She attempted to move. She struggled for a moment like a wild thing, like a trapped animal, heart pounding as though it would burst. Then she stopped, turned her head away from the light, closing her eyes tight, seeing only scarlet. Gradually the pounding of her heart subsided. Nothing else happened. There was no noise. No one had come into the room. The light had been switched on from some remote control.

Monique waited. Someone would come soon. The problem was to know what to say and how to behave when they did. It puzzled and frightened her because she knew something had gone wrong.

Footsteps, brisk, light, efficient, were coming along outside the room, down a corridor. There was a slight pause as though the person who had come so fast was now hesitating a moment and then the door opened. The footsteps became muffled, soft on a soft floor, and there was only a rustling.

A woman’s face came into the light.

‘You’re awake, Mrs Shepherd, I am so glad. We didn’t disturb you before. You’ve had a nice long sleep.’

The words, the smile, the white coat were reassuringly professional. The woman’s face was interesting. It was a broad face, rather like a child’s, to which had been added, almost as an afterthought, the depth and lines of middle age. The hair was fair, flecked with grey, deliberately short and unremarkable, the eyes bright, hard, intelligent.

‘I’m the masseuse, Mrs Wrythe.’

She was taking the blankets off Monique as she spoke, making reassuring comments.

‘You’ve been taking drugs. A lot since your husband died. That is permissible for forty-eight hours. We don’t decry the use of drugs. No one wishes to stop their use. There are times when they are necessary. But these days doctors think of nothing else. Having found out that drugs relieve pain and suffering they are so over-worked and rushed that they find it by far the simplest thing to continue to prescribe them, so that more and more people in this country are continually drugged and are therefore never well. A drugged organism is not and never can be a healthy organism. Never.’

Monique’s last garment had been removed; so easily and so skilfully that she had hardly been aware that she had been undressed. She lay naked on the couch.

Mrs Wrythe continued to talk.

‘What we say, Mrs Shepherd, is that nature’s way is best. It may take longer, it may be more difficult and more demanding for the patient, but in the end nature’s own way is always the best. Always — in the end.’

The skilful fingers were touching gently, here and there, breasts, ribs, stomach, tapping, pressing, lightly palpating.

‘You were a dancer,’ Mrs Wrythe’s hand moved downward over the hips to the thighs. ‘The femoris,’ she said, ‘is beautifully developed. You can always tell. But it is so hard, like rock.’

The hands passed up the thighs, across the groin, to the stomach moving with firm circular rhythm.

‘Relax.’

The hands came away and Monique opened her eyes. It was difficult to see through the glare of light. Mrs Wrythe was taking off her coat. She came over again with a bottle of yellow oil, extracting the cork, talking all the time. The oil was thick, buttery.

‘We must begin work on you. It will take time. You must cooperate. You must relax. Close your eyes. If the light is too strong, tell me. I have to work in a good light. I have to watch the reaction of the muscles. They have to be softened, the poisons eased out of them.’ The oil was warm, flooding her body, the massaging hands a part of the warm soft oil. ‘You are relaxing. Before, you were resistant. Allow your body to go limp.’ The hands came up over Monique’s breasts, kneading the large pectoral muscles, the warm yellow oil flooding and bubbling under the fingers like a tide, like yellow waves. There was no danger. Not immediately.

‘Turn over, please.’

The warm oil flooded down her spine. She was moving gently, backwards and forwards, under each rhythmic pressure, sliding on the foam rubber couch within the oily hollow created by her body. The couch was heated. The heat steamed up. Her hair and face were being covered in oil. The scent of the oil became stronger. She was floating in a warm oleaginous tide, moved and directed by purposeful hands that seemed no longer hands.

The massage ceased. Warm towels enveloped her. She was being rubbed down.

‘Turn over, please.’

She stared into Mrs Wrythe’s bright, piercing eyes. Mrs Wrythe’s face and arms and shoulders were covered with fine beads of sweat. The white mesh singlet she wore had become partly translucent with oil and sweat. She had on a singlet and shorts. The singlet was stuck to the skin. Monique could see the shape of Mrs Wrythe’s breasts and the outlines of the unusually large nipples. Mrs Wrythe was panting like an animal.

‘Nature’s way is best,’ said Mrs Wrythe.

The hot water hissing from the chrome cone pattered on the shower curtains. Monique closed her eyes and stood in the centre of the shower, feeling her body glow. By the time she came out of the shower, Mrs Wrythe had already changed and put on her white coat. She was writing at a small table, unperturbed, professionally remote. By her side was an open card file. Monique stood in front of the dryer, rubbing herself gently with the heated towel. Mrs Wrythe finally put down her pen, placed the card back in the box, screwed the top on her pen and replaced it in her pocket.

'While you are with us you will not need sleeping pills,’ said Mrs Wrythe. 'When you came,’ she continued, 'you were given an injection. That was to help you relax. But there will be no further drugs.’

Monique was silent. The gap in her memory was partly explained, but she doubted if the injection had been solely intended to make her relax. She thought, apprehensively, vaguely, without much knowledge, of what could be done with drugs.

'You can read until eleven,’ said Mrs Wrythe. ‘But we have a rule that all lights must be out after that time. Please ring if there is anything you require. You will find the discipline rather difficult at first after the kind of life you have been living but everything we do here is for your own good and is based upon natural law.’

Monique’s gown and nightdress were on a radiator. Mrs Wrythe indicated them and Monique obediently put them on.

‘I’ll show you to your room. Tomorrow we will go into your treatment.’

The single bedroom to which she was taken was on the same floor. The room was small, with parquet floor, white walls, a bowl of flowers on a bedside table. She recognized her suitcase on a small luggage grid. She could not remember whether she had left it there or not. She found the gap in her memory annoying rather than alarming.

'We have a regular discipline,’ said Mrs Wrythe.

‘Discipline is of great importance. We try to create a rhythm to which the body will respond. Try and sleep now.’

Monique waited until she heard Mrs Wrythe’s footsteps recede down the corridor and then went across and opened her suitcase. The sleeping pills were still in the container in her handbag.

She looked at her watch. It was ten o’clock. She lit a cigarette and wondered whether to try and do without a sleeping pill and eventually decided that she might as well and went to bed. She lay smoking for some time before putting out the light. She wondered if there was a rule against smoking.

Her body felt good after the massage but she could not enjoy the sense of physical ease and pleasure, lying relaxed between the cool sheets, because her brain was too active and too many thoughts were going round in her head. She was conscious that she had done so many things that were absurd and foolish. She wondered if what she was doing now was right and when she would be at peace and if ever one was at peace. Then she began to wonder about the child.

About two o’clock in the morning she was still awake. She put on the bedside light and wondered whether to ring the bell or whether to take a pill. Something made her get up and open the curtains.

Moonlight flooded into the room. The moon was full and large and very bright. She found her cigarettes, lit one, put out her bedside light and sat in the window. The sky was full of shoal clouds, small and silver, like phosphorescent fish in a dark pool.

Looking out over the garden in the bright moonlight she could see the windows of one wing, the ivy and the wisteria on the walls, part of a terrace, stone dogs, steps leading down to a lawn. Beyond were fields. In the distance was the glint of water. It was very peaceful and utterly still. Down by the yew hedge something moved.

She could not see what it was. There was a shadow which was deeper than the rest but as she stared the shadow dissolved. She had just decided that the light was playing tricks when something — a branch or a footstep — scraped on the terrace. This time she was certain there had been someone in the garden, who had come up under the shadow of the yew hedge and on to the terrace.

She remained alert. There was a balcony outside her room which obscured her view of the terrace immediately below. One side of the balcony was in shadow and in this shadow appeared another. There was a slight rustling, a scurry of movement on the balcony and a man eased himself over the window sill. Even in the breathtaking suddenness of his arrival she recognized the tilt of the head and the hard line of the chin.

‘Don't move.’

Holmes' urgent whisper was barely loud enough to be heard.

‘There's someone patrolling the grounds and they’ve got a dog. We could see you for miles when you switched the light on. Go on smoking. Let them see the glow from your cigarette.'

Holmes was standing in the shadow of the curtain, watching the lawn. He waited until he seemed satisfied he had not been seen. There was a click and something glinted in his hand.

‘Get up,’ he said. ‘Walk to the bed. Put on the bedside light. Come back and draw the curtains.’

His voice was a whisper. By the time she had drawn the curtains he was moving rapidly and silently about the room, intent on something which at first she could not understand. The mattress was turned over, the bed moved, the base of the bedlight examined. He proceeded with the same deliberate purpose to take out the drawer of the bedside cabinet, examining the inside. Apparently satisfied, he replaced the drawer and looked round the room, frowning. There was a metal strip along one edge of the parquet floor.

There was a swift movement of his right hand and a knife blade gleamed. He prised up two of the wood blocks, exposing the coloured wires in the channel. He worked quickly, expertly, cutting them, and at length stood up, the floor blocks back in place. He smiled at her wryly, self-consciously. 'Who are in the rooms next door?’

There’s a massage room on one side.’

'And the other?’

‘I don’t know. What were you looking for?’

'Microphones.’

The bedlight glinted on the long wicked-looking steel blade in his right hand. There was a click, a sudden movement of his wrist, and the blade vanished. He held out a silver cigarette case. 'You and I,’ he said easily, ‘had better sort out those stories you told to Colonel Lamb.’

Her throat was dry. 'I don’t know what you mean.’

'You know what I mean.’

‘I do not.’

He seated himself on the bed. 'If it is any consolation, I would probably have done the same thing in the circumstances.’ He made a sympathetic gesture. ‘I suspect you didn’t know who they were until after you were committed.’

‘Committed?’

‘To work for them.’

Holmes snicked out the bedlight. ‘Just a precaution. We don’t want to attract visitors.’ They sat in semi-darkness.

‘It’s somewhat complex.’ He sounded friendly. ‘The best thing is to tell us everything.’ There was no reply. He hardly expected one. He was searching for something that would break through her defences. He said:

‘You’re shielding someone. We know why you’re doing it. We know your motives. But it won’t work. It never works.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said.

‘You know very well what I mean. What you’ve got to realize is they’re making use of you. They won’t keep their promise. They never do.’

'No one’s made any promises.’

'Listen to me!’ He spoke with a sudden flare of impatience. She could feel the passion in his voice. ‘You don’t know what you’re doing. You’ve been trapped into something far bigger than you realize. God knows exactly what you're playing at or what you're thinking of but one thing is certain from what we know of these people — once they've got what they want they'll drop you flat.' He was still seeking the way through her defences. Suddenly it came.

‘What have you done with that small boy of yours?'