Andromeda Breakthrough

CHAPTER FOUR SQUALL LINES

The attendants in the Palais des Nations at Geneva told one another that there had not been such a smoothly running international conference for years. Russians nodded cheerfully as their interpreters repeated the heart-felt views of an American delegate. Even the French were inviting ideas for co-operative effort. In fact, the whole thing was almost boring.

The reason was that the subject under discussion was the weather. Everyone could agree that it was undeniably bad.

As gales blew indiscriminately over East and West, and abnormally heavy rainfall was prevalent throughout the Northern hemisphere, no sensitive nationalist could find an excuse for blaming his neighbour.

A few nations, imaginative enough to realise that weather control was within the realms of possibility, had sent scientists as well as meteorologists to Geneva in the hopes of getting some agreement about methods and policy before haphazard experiments began. Britain was among them. That was why the Ministry of Science had despatched Osborne as an ex officio delegate.

Osborne had gone, disturbed, in mind. Despite interdepartmental briefs which had been circulated to draw attention to climatic phenomena for which there was no precedent, this weather conference seemed really of just academic interest - one of those United Nations' activities which kept a lot of people happy and did no one any harm. Osborne wondered whether the trip had been arranged as a preliminary to a transfer to some innocuous department like Met.

as the result of the suspicions of his complicity in the Thorness business.

The minister had been remarkably considerate about the whole thing. Security officers were still interviewing personnel, and Osborne's assistant had become very nervous and timid. Osborne had brightly insisted that if they both stuck to the story that the assistant had accompanied him to Thorness on that momentous night all would be well. It was perfectly normal for a senior official to go around with his P.A. Rather unwillingly the assistant agreed to stick to his story. Osborne suspected that real pressure by the sleuths, or the simpler method of putting the young man on oath, would exact the truth. It was another reason why he would have preferred to remain in Whitehall to watch for a weakening of his assistant's resolution and to give moral support.

Once in Geneva, he decided to make the best of it. Whatever foulness the winter was producing elsewhere, in the Alps it just meant more than the usual amount of snow. Heavy night falls were followed by brilliant sunshine with clockwork regularity. The lake lay ice-blue in the brightness; the famous fountain spurted high in the sky, its spray in rainbow colours. The clean, snow-cleared streets were alive with delegates and their relatives enjoying themselves between sessions.

When he looked through the tall windows of the rooftop cafe at this pleasant scene he thoroughly regretted the time spent in the close and over-heated conference room. But Professor Neilson's paper had not been without interest.

These Americans certainly got down to bedrock when there was a problem to be solved.

Osborne had left before the discussion began - with its inevitable pointless questions which were really statements. He was lazily watching his cafe filtre drip into the glass when a woman approached his table. She was not young, but looked intelligent and pleasant.

'Mr Osborne?' Her accent was American.

Osborne stood up. 'Yes,' he answered. 'I don't think I know - '

She smiled. 'I'm Professor Neilson's wife.' They shook hands and Osborne pulled out the adjoining chair. She sat down.

I'm afraid you've missed your husband's paper,' he began.

'He's just finished reading it. Everyone was most impressed.

He'll be out soon; the discussion should be almost over.'

She did not seem to be heeding what he said. 'Mr.Osborne,' she said quietly, 'I think my husband would like to talk to you. Not about the conference.' She glanced towards the door where a crowd of delegates were moving around the foyer. 'If you could possibly wait till he comes. I'd rather let him tell you what it's about.'

'Of course,' Osborne said. 'Meantime, may I order you something?'

She nodded. 'Some coffee, please.'

When Neilson arrived he looked round carefully, then sat down and addressed himself without any preamble to Osborne.

'I suppose my wife has left it to me to tell you. I badly want to talk. I'll come to the point. How much do you know about an outfit called Intel?'

Osborne took time to decide on his answer. 'They're a big international trading consortium. Very big.'

'Sure,' agreed Neilson, 'they're big. The thing is: are they reputable ?'

'I don't really know,' Osborne said cautiously.

'Mr Osborne,' said Mrs Neilson. 'This morning we had a cable from our son. We haven't seen him for two years. All the cable said was "Will meet you at the cafe Nicole in Geneva one evening this week, Intel permitting." It's the first clue that he was even alive we've gotten since the Christmas before last.'

'But you knew more or less where he was and what he was doing?' Osborne suggested.

Neilson gave a short laugh. 'He went after a job in Vienna two years back. A postcard said he was okay and not to worry. That's all.'

'What sort of job?' Osborne asked.

'Well, I guess that as he graduated from the Massachusetts Institute with a Ph.D. in electronics, it'd be a job in that line.'

'I believe Intel have an office here, or certainly in Zurich.

Have you enquired?'

'Of course,' Mrs Neilson replied. 'They said they knew nothing about the staffs at the firm's offices outside Switzerland. That's why I persuaded my husband to ask you for information.'

'But why?' Osborne demanded.

'Because you're a friend of a friend of my son's,' Neilson said. 'John Fleming. Jan brought him home a couple of times when Fleming came to the Institute on an exchange setup with the Cavendish Laboratory at Cambridge. They were great buddies. And, of course, we know Fleming became a key man in your Ministry's programme.'

'I don't think there's anything I can do to help you,' said Osborne woodenly. 'We've lost touch with Professor Fleming .... ' He paused, embarrassed, and then went on hurriedly, 'but I'm not returning to London till the day after tomorrow. Perhaps I could meet your son? If he says in his cable that he's coming this week it must mean either this evening or tomorrow.'

The Neilsons were grateful. They invited him to have dinner with them at the cafe that evening, and, if Jan didn't turn up then, the following evening as well.

That evening Mrs Neilson insisted on going to the cafe by seven. 'I'll sit in the front part,' she told her husband; 'then he'll be sure to see me. We can go into the dining room later.'

She ordered a kirsch and was taking the first sip when he materialised out of the dusk and sat down beside her without speaking; a pale, serious young man, very much on edge. She was shocked by the way he had aged and got so lean; and by how nervous he seemed. He kissed her on the cheek, but he pulled his hand away when she tried to clasp it.

'Please don't make us conspicuous, Mom,' he muttered.

'I'm sorry if that hurts you. But - well, you see, I've good reasons,' He stubbed out a half-smoked cigarette.

'Surely, son,' his mother said, trying to smile. 'I understand.

But at least you're here. I can look at you. It's been so long.'

The love in her eyes hurt him. 'Mom,' he began, hunching towards her across the table. 'I've got to talk, and I may not have much time. You see, I'm on the run. No,' he tried to smile, 'I'm not a criminal. The shoe's on the other foot. The crooks are after me.'

He paused when a waiter came for his order. He sent the man away for a large Scotch, and then started to talk, hurriedly and a little incoherently, as if time was running out.

Soon Neilson arrived with Osborne. The two men had met just outside the cafe Neilson greeted his son with delight, thumping him on the back and grinning happily. 'We'll celebrate this with the biggest steak the Swiss can think up.

And champagne.' He remembered Osborne was standing quietly beside them.

'My apologies, Osborne,' he said. 'I'd like you to meet my son . . . Jan, Mr Osborne is a friend of Professor Fleming.'

Osborne had just extended his hand when a youth with a flashgun and a cumbersome plate camera came up.

'Professor Neilson,' he shouted at them. 'Un moment, si'l vous plait. A picture, please. For the American press.'

He bustled around, pushing all four into position he wanted for the photograph. Jan he had standing between his seated mother and father, Osborne well to one side. Satisfied, he backed towards the cafe entrance, peering into the range-finder.

'Bon!' he exclaimed. The flash momentarily blinded everyone with its burst of white light.

Simultaneously Jan fell sideways against his father, moaning.

The photographer disappeared into the street, and a gentleman who had been reading a newspaper at a table beside the door put on his hat, slid something black and shiny into the breast pocket of his overcoat and walked quite unhurriedly after the photographer.

The Neilson's were bent over their son, but Osborne had seen the careful and methodical movements of the man near the door. He had seen what that black thing shoved inside the coat was, noticing the squat round cylinder of a silencer on the muzzle of the gun. He loped through the door - in time to see a Citroen, its number plate covered in frozen slush, pick up photographer and gunman and cruise away along the lakeside road which led to Vevey and the frontier.

He returned to the Neilsons. 'It's no good,' he said gently.

'They got away.'

The Neilsons took no notice. They were isolated by their grief as they awkwardly nursed the body of their dead son, one on each side.

Mrs Neilson looked helplessly at her husband. 'He - he told me he feared this,' she moaned. 'They've been hunting him for months. They kept him prisoner before that, but he escaped. They made him work.'

'Who did?' her husband exclaimed. 'Where could he have been imprisoned?'

She began caressing Jan's hair, touching his eyelids. 'He said it was in a country called Azaran.'

In a discreet house on the outskirts of Berne, Kaufman was compiling the details of the report he had to send his employers.

The gunman stood at the side of the bureau desk, eyeing the bundle of American dollars which he had earned.

'So the pictureman was late,' Kaufman said; 'he will be reprimanded in due course. But you are sure you killed the Neilson boy before he could talk?'

'He wouldn't talk much after he was hit,' the gunman laughed. 'But he talked plenty before. To his mother. And she can talk to her husband - and to some Englishman the old man brought with him. He was introduced to the boy as Osborne.'

Kaufman sighed. 'Osborne. It would have to be. All this killing. I dislike it. One death - and you have to organise another. So it goes on.'

He pushed the money to the corner of the desk. The gunman stuck it inside his coat, a cushion for the revolver which lay there.

'Get out of the country right away,' Kaufman told him.

'As for me, I shall have to return to England.'

Andre and Fleming were flown to the R.A.F. station at Northolt to avoid ,publicity problems at London Airport. A Government car awaited them on the apron and they were driven straight to the Ministry of Science.

The Minister had decided to handle the interview personally, with Geers sitting in to brief on the technical side.

He had a foreboding about questions in the House some time or other about this business if the secret leaked, and he had no intention of having to admit inefficiency. He was also a just man, which was why he had called a solicitor from the Attorney General's office to sit in and watch over the normal rights of a British citizen. His worried mind found a touch of humour there. Was the girl a British citizen? She had no birth certificate; no parents. So far as Somerset House was concerned she did not exist. It was an interesting point if this affair ever came to a legal trial. He fervently hoped it wouldn't.

The Minister greeted his visitors coldly. But he went out of his way to stress that this was in no sense a trial; it was an informal enquiry.

Fleming, untidy and doing his best to disguise the strain he felt, laughed sardonically. 'Very informal,' he said. 'I noticed the informally dressed plain clothes nark hanging around the door just in case I might make a run for it. Ah, and my dear Geers is here as well.'

The Minister ignored him and turned to Andre. 'Sit down, my dear,' he said gently. 'You must be very tired. But this is unfortunately necessary.'

He sat at his desk and re-read the brief report of the preliminary questioning Quadring had sent by teletype.

I'm informed that you are suffering from amnesia,' he began, and motioned to Geers.

Geers rose from his chair to the Minister's right and confronted the girl. 'Andromeda,' he said harshly. 'Surely you haven't forgotten the factors involved in the synthesis of living tissue? Do you really mean to tell us you know nothing about the fact that one of the formulae obtained from the computer on which you worked enable Professor Dawnay to construct living matter in the laboratory? And that the outcome of that work was you yourself?'

Andre looked back at him, wide-eyed but quite calm, with the placidity of a child. She slowly shook her head.

Geer's face flushed with frustration and anger. 'You're not going to insist that you can't remember your work with the computer?'

The solicitor coughed discreetly. 'I think that is enough, Dr Geers,' he said mildly. To Andre he murmured, 'Don't worry to answer all these questions just now.'

'I agree,' said the Minister, glaring at Geers. 'The girl's unfit and distraught. Perhaps we can have her history properly explained to her in a calmer atmosphere.'

Fleming strode forward to the desk. 'That's the last thing!'

he shouted.

The Minister looked at him coldly. 'I beg your pardon.'

Hurriedly the solicitor interposed. 'I think that my professional advice would be that this lady must testify once she is medically fit and has been properly informed of the past.

Her evidence would, of course, have to be before a properly constituted Board of Enquiry.'

'I could brief her,' Geers said eagerly.

The Minister looked at him with hardly concealed distaste.

'I would have preferred Osborne if circumstances had been different. In any case, he cannot be brought back from Geneva until tomorrow.' He smiled at Andre. 'Perhaps you'll wait in the ante-room while we talk to Dr Fleming?'

Fleming crossed to the door and opened it. He smiled reassuringly at her as she went out.

'Now, Dr Fleming, why did you abduct this woman?' The Minister's gentle tone had changed.

'That's beside the point,' Fleming retorted truculently.

'Then what is the point?'

'That the message from the Andromeda nebulae, and all that derived from it, was evil.' Deliberately he forced himself to speak calmly and quietly. 'It was sent by a superior intelligence that would subjugate us, and would have, if necessary, destroyed us.'

'And because you thought that, you destroyed the computer.'

The Minister's tone was grim, though the inflexion suggested he was posing a question rather than making a statement. 'Yet you seem to be ready to do anything to protect the girl who worked it. Your contention surely involves her in your condemnation.'

'The girl is nothing without the computer. The will, the memory, the knowledge - they were all in the machine. You can see there's something lacking in her now that the computer no longer exists - thank God. Something missing in her character. Ask Geers; he knows what she was like... '

The Minister ignored the invitation. He had no intention of getting involved in by-ways of ethics when he believed the issue was far simpler.

'I put it to you, Dr Fleming, that you destroyed the computer and you abducted the girl because she might have told us what happened.'

'I took her because she needed to be protected from the people around her.' Fleming looked at Geers.

The Minister picked up a sheet of paper tucked into the bulky file before him. 'Perhaps you'd care to comment on the fact that Mr Osborne's assistant, the man supposed to have accompanied him to Thorness on the night of the fire, admitted when questioned late this afternoon that he did not go there.'

'You'll have to ask Osborne who he did take, won't you?'

said Fleming.

'We shall,' the Minister glowered. 'In the meantime, Dr Fleming, you must consider yourself under surveillance. To avoid the necessity of formal arrest and indictment at Bow Street, with all the unpleasant sensationalism affecting both ourselves and you and the girl, I hope you will cooperate sensibly. I cannot force you to be our guest without a charge.

But we can arrange very pleasant accommodation.'

'So Magna Carta still operates?' said Fleming sarcastically.

'If I insist on being arrested, on what grounds could you cook up a charge?'

'Defence Regulations,' murmured the solicitor. 'The relevant Acts would be - '

'Spare me the details,' Fleming interrupted. 'I'll come quietly. And where is this - er - hotel for unwelcome guests of the Government?'

'Not too far away,' said the Minister vaguely. 'It will do you good, or at least the girl will benefit. A glimpse of more spacious days of the kind one pays 2s. 6d. on Sundays to inspect. I'm afraid I can't be more specific than that. The army's been using part of it ever since 1942. It would be best, I think, if you went there right away and both got a good night's rest. You may see things more dearly, even sensibly, in the morning.'

The car journey took a couple of hours. Even Fleming could find no fault with the accommodation or service.

Someone used to this sort of thing had arranged for every comfort - drinks, clean clothes, books, baths, everything.

Andre was as lavishly provided. Fleming was, however, not over-enamoured with the solid-looking maidservants who hovered around. Their white overalls did not disguise their regulation hair styles and their khaki nylon stockings and sturdy black shoes. Fleming had never approved of women in the armed services.

But he found the clumsiness of the 6 ft. waiter who served their excellent dinner amusing. There was something about a policeman which could never be disguised, not even when he was a member of the Special Branch.

Otherwise they were left to themselves in the days that followed. They could walk as much as they liked around the vast parkland. Fleming noticed that Andre seemed to be growing increasingly vacant and that she stumbled quite often even on the smooth grass. He also noted that the chain link fence was the usual Government type, precisely like that round Thorness. The old gatehouse at the entrance to the main drive had been visibly transformed into a guard room.

The guard carried an automatic rifle.

One afternoon Andre was taken away. Geers had arrived and wanted to talk with her. She spent many hours of the ensuing day with the scientist. He did his work well. Andre emerged thoughtful though still curiously unmoved. She told Fleming that she accepted that all Geers had said was true, but it was like the life outline of some other person. It struck no strong chord in her own memory, although she realised that she had been involved in the destruction of the computer.

'What will they do to us?' she asked when they sat in the lounge, idly watching some inanity on T.V. late that evening.

Fleming was quiet for a time, marvelling that the moronic woman simpering at the camera had just won a spin dryer for confirming that the Amazon was a large river. 'I imagine they'll wait until poor old Osborne joins us here,' he said eventually. 'Then they'll have a trial in camera. He and I will be beheaded at the Tower, Osborne a perfect gentleman to the very end. As for you' - he found he could not go on, and they sat without speaking for a long while in the flickering half-light of the telly.

Suddenly there were footsteps outside, heavy ones, on the parquet flooring.

'Who's that?' Andre asked. Both had grown accustomed to the flannel-footed silence of the minions who watched over them.

'Could be Osborne,' Fleming suggested. 'It's about time he joined the party. Nice if they let us all spend our last days together.

But it wasn't Osborne. It was Kaufman. He was dressed in an over-long black overcoat. In one hand he held a black homburg, in the other a briefcase. He was momentarily taken aback at the sight of Fleming and Andre.

'Excuse please,' he murmured, shutting the door quietly. 'I had expected to meet Mr Osborne .... ' He nervously licked his lips and then put on a big smile. 'I was informed he was due here this evening. Instead I have the honour of greeting Dr Fleming.' He advanced, podgy hand outstretched.

'Mein freund Kaufman,' mimicked Fleming, ignoring the handshake. 'How did you flannel your way into this place?'

Kaufman drew himself up. 'I am representing Mr.Osborne's lawyer. It is all so difficult, this matter. But now I have the good luck. I meet you.'

He peered myopically through his spectacles at Andre, still sitting in her easy chair. 'And this is the famous young lady!'

He crossed to her, bowed, and took her hand, brushing the back of it with his lips.

'You see, my dear, how charming these Viennese are,' said Fleming.

Kaufman scowled. 'I do not come from Vienna, but from Dusseldorf, mein liebe Doktor!'

'It's not so long since you were taking pot shots at your liebe doctor,' Fleming pointed out. 'Not you, of course. You get other people to pull triggers and make uncomfortable trips to small private islands.'

Kaufman seemed genuinely embarrassed. 'I am not a free agent,' he said. 'I do not act as I would wish.'

'Only as your bosses in Intel wish.'

There was something unexpectedly sad and bitter in Kaufman's answer. 'Some of us are not lucky enough to do the things we would choose.'

Fleming nodded. 'Why did they send you after us?'

'You have something my directors want.' Kaufman was restless. He tip-toed to the window and pulled aside the heavy chintz curtains. Momentarily light swept over his face from moving lamps. At the same time there was the quiet throb of an idling engine and the faint swish of wheels braking on gravel.

'Your client, Mr Osborne, maybe,' suggested Fleming.

Kaufman shook his head. No, Dr Fleming, this is a van. It will stop round the back, in the stable yard.' His voice grew clipped and stern. 'Now, please, you will both come with me.'

He partially drew the curtains and pushed open the long, low window.

'Don't take any notice of what he says,' Fleming muttered quietly to Andre. 'Just go on sitting there.'

'Please,' beseeched Kaufman. 'Last week I have a young man shot dead. A nice young man. I did not even know him.

I do not like such things.'

There was some noise outside and a trench-coated figure sprang lightly over the sill. He was a thin, sallow-faced youngster hardly out of his teens. His narrowed eyes darted round the room. The gun in his hand was held rock-steady.

'Come on,' he ordered in a small morose voice, 'it's bloody cold and wet hanging around out there. Let's get going.'

Kaufman moved behind the gunman. 'We wish to have you alive, Herr Doktor,' he said, 'but we should be prepared to stretch a point with the young lady.' The man in the trench coat pointed the revolver towards Andre. There was a studied movement of his thumb as he spun the bullet chamber.

Fleming knew it was a crude theatrical gesture, but a purposeful one. He beckoned to Andre. With her hand in his they crossed to the window.

Kaufman climbed through the window first, turning to help Andre. The gunman brought up the rear, his pistol close to Fleming's back, but suddenly whirled round as he heard the door into the lounge opening. The others were already on the terrace. Fleming stopped dead and looked back.

Osborne was standing in the doorway, gaping at the gunman. Just behind him was a soldier, wearing the scarlet armband of the Military Police.

'What the dickens, who the devil...?' Osborne managed to say as the soldier pushed him roughly out of the way. But it was too late. The gunman fired - once. Osborne crashed back against the door from the impact of the bullet. The gunman leaped to the window and fired again wildly as he clambered through. The bullet missed the soldier, who had started to rush forward, but sent him sprawling for cover.

From where he lay he blew his whistle for aid, while Osborne collapsed slowly to the ground with his left hand clasped to his right shoulder and a frozen look of surprise on his face.

'What a damned ridiculous thing to happen,' he said slowly and distinctly, and then slumped forward.

Outside, in the darkness and the gusty rain, unseen hands grabbed Fleming and Andre. They were picked up bodily and pushed into the back of a van. The rear doors were slammed shut, and the engine started. Then with a scream of protesting tyres the van shot away, rocking so violently that it was impossible for Fleming to get to his feet. The vehicle gathered more speed on the long straight drive to the gates.

Fleming heard confused shouts as they roared past the guard room and on to the highway. Time after time they almost overturned as the driver took sharp turns at full speed, the sideways skids forcing Andre and Fleming to lie flat, bracing their feet against the steel sides.

After a while they settled down to a fast, steady speed.

Fleming guessed that they were on a motorway. He cursed the fact that he had no watch, But he estimated that this stretch lasted for half an hour - say forty miles since they had started.

The van slowed, swerved to the right and again there came bursts of speed alternating with abrupt turns. The bumpiness suggested a badly made road or lane.

Gingerly he stood up and with the aid of the futile flame from his cigarette lighter looked quickly round the van. He knew it was just a gesture. The interior was solid metal. The door was secured by the usual lock bars from the outside.

There was no aperture beyond a small wire-meshed peep hole at the front near the driver. This was covered.

The van slowed down to a crawl, cruising slowly over uneven ground. It began to bump badly and the tyres made no more noise. They were obviously on grass. Then the van stopped.

There was a pause before the rear doors were opened.

Rain was pouring down. Kaufman stood there smiling in the glimmer of a shaded flash light held by someone to the rear.

Beside Kaufman stood the gunman.

'Well, Doctor,' said Kaufman, 'will you be so good as to get out; the young lady as well ?'

Taking his time, Fleming jumped down. He lifted Andre out. 'Your friend has rubbed out the perfectly harmless Osborne,' he told Kaufman. 'I wouldn't say that we're harmless, so what's your programme in our case? And where are we?

'On a disused airfield of our great American allies,' Kaufman said. 'The runways are enormous and still excellent. We are saving you the unpleasantness of a trial and imprisonment for sabotage. I am sure your Government consider you a traitor.' He removed his glasses and cleaned off the globules of rain. 'No more time for talking.' He seemed almost regretful.

'The plane must leave immediately. Come!'

The gunman moved behind Fleming, and Kaufman led the way. Soon Fleming could see the wet, shining surface of an aircraft fuselage.

'Welcome aboard madame - and you, sir,' said a woman's voice.

Fleming laughed at the madness of it. The girl at the top of the aircraft's steps was neatly dressed in a dark blue uniform. She was the usual type of air stewardess, trim, neat, and pretty. In the glowing red of the night emergency lights in the cabin Fleming saw that she was oriental. Swiftly she directed her guests to a couple of seats forward, helping them to fasten their safety belts. She completely ignored the man with the gun, who went to the seat across the gangway and sat there, half turned towards them, the gun still in his hands.

Kaufman disappeared through the crew door. The starter motor whirred. First one engine whined, then a second.

'Jets!' muttered Fleming to himself. 'Trust Intel to do things properly. No expense spared.'

There was no run-up of power. The jets were given full throttle with the brakes on; they sighed down from their crescendo, and then began to whine once more. The aircraft moved smoothly down the runway.

As soon as they were airborne they climbed steeply. The pilot obviously intended to get well clear of the commercial air lanes with their inquisitive radar controls. Soon they were through the clouds and bathed in cold moonlight. Fleming estimated from the stars he could identify that they were heading in a southerly direction.

When Kaufman emerged from the cabin he confirmed this. 'We have just crossed the English coast,' he beamed.

'We are now over international waters. All is well. I suggest you try to get some sleep after the hostess has served refreshments.

We shall be landing in about four hours in North Africa.'

'Whereabouts in North Africa?' Fleming enquired.

'Of no importance,' said the German. 'Just for refuelling.

The major part of the journey follows. To Azaran.'