Circus

2

For such an unsalubrious place in such an unsalubrious area the sitting-room was surprisingly comfortable, although the person who had furnished it would appear to have had a fixation about the colour russet, for the sofa, armchairs, carpet and heavily discreet curtains were all of the same colour or very close to it. A smokeless coal fire — for this was a smokeless area — did its best to burn cheerfully in the hearth. Wrinfield and Bruno occupied an armchair apiece: Fawcett was presiding over a cocktail cabinet, one of the portable kind. Bruno said carefully: “Tell me again, please. About this antimatter or whatever it is you call it.”

Fawcett sighed. “I was afraid you might ask me that. I know I got it right first time, because I’d memorized what I had to say and just repeated it parrot fashion. I had to because I don’t really know what it’s all about myself.” Fawcett handed round drinks — a soda for Bruno — and rubbed his chin. “I’ll try and simplify it this time round. Then maybe I’ll be able to get some inklings of understanding myself.

Matter, we know, is made up of atoms. There are lots of things that go to make up those atoms — scientists, it seems, are becoming increasingly baffled about the ever-increasing complexity of the atom — but all that concerns our simple minds are the two basic constituents of the atom, electrons and protons. On our earth — in the universe, for that matter — electrons are invariably negatively charged and protons positively charged. Unfortunately, life is become increasingly difficult for our scientists and astronomers — for instance, it has been discovered only this year that there are particles, made of God knows what, that travel at many times the speed of light, which is a very upsetting and distressing concept for all those of the scientist community — and that was one hundred per cent — who believe that nothing could travel faster than the speed of light. However, that’s by the way.

Some time ago a couple of astronomers — Dicke and Anderson were their names — made the inconvenient discovery, based on theoretical calculations, that there must exist positively charged electrons. Their existence is now universally accepted, and they are referred to today as positrons. Then, to complicate things still further, the existence of anti-protons was discovered — this was in Berkeley — again electrically opposite to our protons. A combination of positrons and anti-protons would give rise to what is now termed ›anti-matter‹. That anti-matter does exist no serious scientists seriously dispute. Nor do they dispute that if an electron or positron or proton and anti-proton collided or both sets collided the results would be disastrous. They would annihilate each other, giving off lethal gamma rays and creating, in the process, a considerable local uproar and a blast of such intense heat that all life within tens or perhaps hundreds of square miles would be instantaneously wiped out. On this scientists are agreed. It is estimated that if only two grams of anti-matter struck our planet on the side out-facing the sun the result would be to send the earth, with all life immediately extinct, spinning into the gravitational orbit of the sun. Provided, of course, it didn’t disintegrate immediately on contact.”

“A delightful prospect,” Wrinfield said. He did not have the look of a convert about him. “No offence, but it sounds like the most idle science-fiction speculation to me.” “Me, too. But I have to accept what I’m told. Anyway, I’m beginning to believe it.”

“Look. We don’t have any of this anti-matter stuff on earth?” “Because of anti-matter’s unpleasant propensity for annihilating all matter with which it comes into contact, that should be fairly obvious.”

“Then where does the stuff come from?”

“How the hell should I know?” Fawcett hadn’t intended to be irritable, he just disliked treading the murky waters of the unknown. “We think ours is the only universe. How do we know? Maybe there lies another universe beyond ours, maybe many. It seems, according to latest scientific thinking, that if there are such universes, there is no reason why one or more should not be made of anti-matter.” Fawcett paused gloomily. “I suppose if any intelligent beings existed there they would consider our universe as being composed of anti-matter. Of course, it could have been some rogue material thrown off at the moment of creation of our own universe. Who’s to say?” Bruno said: “So the whole matter is speculation. It’s just a hypothesis. Theoretical calculations, that’s all. There is no proof, Colonel Fawcett.”

“We think there is.” He smiled. “Forgive the use of ›we‹. What could have been, in the terms of human lives, a disaster of the first magnitude occurred in a happily unpopulated area of northern Siberia in 1908. When Russian scientists got around to investigating this — almost twenty years later — they discovered an area of over a hundred square miles where trees had been destroyed by heat; not by fire but by instantaneous incineration which, in many cases, led to the petrifaction of trees in the upright position. Had this extraordinary phenomenon occurred over, say, New York or London, they would have become blackened cities of the dead.”

“Proof,” Bruno said. “We were speaking of proof, Colonel.” “Proof. Every other known damage caused to the earth by the impact of bodies from outer space have, without exception, been caused by meteors. There was no trace of the meteor that might have caused this Siberian holocaust and no signs of any mark upon the ground where the meteor might have crashed into it: when meteors crashed into Arizona and South Africa they left enormous craters in the ground. The now accepted and indeed inevitable conclusion is that Siberia was struck by a particle of anti-matter with a mass of something of the order of one hundredth of a millionth of a gram.”

There was a considerable silence, then Wrinfield said: “Well, we have already covered this. Second time round it’s a bit clearer, but not much. So?”

“Some dozen years ago there was scientific speculation as to whether the Russians had discovered the secret of anti-matter but this was dismissed out of hand because — well, because of anti-matter’s unpleasant propensity of annihilating all matter with which it comes into contact, the creation, harnessing and storage of it was impossible.

Was impossible. What if it were possible or about to become possible? The nation that held this secret could hold the world to ransom. Comparatively, nuclear weapons are inoffensive toys for the amusement of little toddlers.”

For a long minute no one spoke, then Wrinfield said: “You would not be talking in this fashion unless you had reason to believe that such a weapon exists or could exist.” “I have reason so to believe. This possibility has obsessed the intelligence agencies of all the modern world for some years now.”

“Obviously this secret is not in our hands, or you wouldn’t be telling us all this.”

“Obviously.”

“And it wouldn’t be in the hands of a country such as Britain?”

“That would give us no cause for anxiety.” “Because when the chips are down they would be allies with responsible hands?”

“I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

“Then this secret resides — if it does reside anywhere — in the hands of a country which, when the chips were down, would be neither friendly nor responsible?”

“Precisely.” Pilgrim, Fawcett reflected, had warned him not to underrate Wrinfield’s intelligence.

Wrinfield said slowly: “Pilgrim and I have already made some tentative arrangements, come to preliminary agreements. You will know that. But he never told me any of this.”

“The time wasn’t right.”

“So now it is?”

“Now or not at all.”

“Of course, you want this secret or formula or whatever?”

Fawcett began to revise his opinion of Wrinfield’s intelligence.

“What do you think?”

“What makes you think our hands are more responsible than those of a score of other nations?”

“I’m a paid employee of the United States government. Mine is not to reason why.”

“It will not have escaped you that that was precisely the reasoning adopted by the Gestapo and the SS in Germany during the Second World War or by Russian’s KGB since?” “It has not escaped me. But I don’t think the analogy is very exact. The United States doesn’t really want more power — armed power, that is. You don’t have to have me tell you that we have already overkill capacity. Can you imagine what would happen if this secret fell into the hands of, say, the certifiable leaders of a couple of the new Central African republics? We simply think we have more responsible hands than most.”

“We have to hope we have.”

Fawcett tried to conceal his long slow exhalation of relief.

“That means you’ll go along.”

“I’ll go. A moment ago you said the time was now right to tell me. Why?”

“I hope I was right in saying I was right.”

Bruno stirred. “What do you want of me, Colonel.” There were times, Fawcett was aware, when there was little point in beating about the bush. He said: “Get it for us.” Bruno rose and poured himself another soda. He drank it all down then said: “You mean, steal it?”

“Get it. Would you call taking a gun away from a maniac stealing?”

“But why me?”

“Because you have unique gifts. I can’t discuss what type of use we would propose making of those gifts until I have some sort of answer. All I know is that we are pretty certain that there is only one formula in existence, only one man who has the formula and is capable of reproducing it. We know where both man and formula are.”

“Where?”

Fawcett didn’t hesitate. “Crau.”

Bruno didn’t react in at all the way Fawcett had expected. His voice, when he spoke, was as bereft of expression as his face. Tonelessly, he repeated the word: “Crau.” “Crau. Your old home country and your old home town.” Bruno didn’t reply immediately. He returned to his chair, sat in it for a full minute, then said: “If I do agree, how do I get there? Illegal frontier crossing? Parachutes?” Fawcett made a heroic — and successful — effort to conceal his sense of exultation. Wrinfield and Bruno — he’d got them both in a matter of minutes. He said matter-of-factly: “Nothing so dramatic. You just go along with the circus.” This time Bruno seemed to be beyond words, so Wrinfield said: “It’s quite true, Bruno. We — that is, I — have agreed to co-operate with the government on this issue. Not that I had any more idea, until this moment, what the precise issue involved was. We are going to make a short tour of Europe, mainly eastern Europe. Negotiations are already well advanced. It’s quite natural. They send circus acts, dancers, singers to us: we’re just reciprocating.”

“The whole circus?”

“No, naturally not. That would be impossible. Just the cream of the cream, shall we say.” Wrinfield smiled faintly. “One would have imagined that to include you.” “And if I refuse?”

“We simply cancel the tour.”

Bruno looked at Fawcett. “Mr Wrinfield’s lost profits. This could cost your government a million dollars.” “Our government. We’d pay a billion to get hold of this.” Bruno looked from Fawcett to Wrinfield then back to Fawcett again. He said abruptly: “I’ll go.”

“Splendid. My thanks. Your country’s thanks. The details —” “I do not need my country’s thanks.” The words were cryptical but without offence.

Fawcett was slightly taken aback, sought for the meaning behind the words then decided he’d better not. He said: “As you will. The details, as I was about to say, can wait until later. Mr Wrinfield, did Mr Pilgrim tell you that we’d be grateful if you would take along two additional people when you go abroad?”

“He did not.” Wrinfield seemed somewhat miffed. “It would appear that there are quite a number of things that Mr Pilgrim did not tell me.”

“Mr Pilgrim knows what he is doing.” Now that he had them both Fawcett took off the velvet gloves but still remained urbane and polite. “There was no point in burdening you with unnecessary details until we had secured the co-operation of both you gentlemen. The two people in question are a Dr Harper and an equestrienne, Maria. Our people. Very important to our purpose. That, too, I’ll explain later. There are some things I must first discuss urgently with Mr Pilgrim. Tell me, Bruno, why have you agreed to do this? I must warn you that it might be extremely dangerous for you and if you’re caught we’ll have no option but to disown you. Why?” Bruno shrugged. “Who’s to say why? There can be many reasons that a man can’t explain even to himself. Could be gratitude — America took me in when my own country threw me out. There are people there to whom I would like to perform as great a disservice as they did to me. I know there are dangerous and irresponsible men in my old country who would not hesitate to employ this weapon, if it exists. And then you say I am uniquely equipped for this task. In what ways I don’t yet know, but if it is the case how could I let another go in my place? Not only might he fail in getting what you want but he could well be killed in the process. I wouldn’t like to have either of those things on my conscience.” He smiled faintly. “Just say it’s a bit of a challenge.”

“And your real reason?”

Bruno said simply: “Because I hate war.”

“Mmm. Not the answer I expected, but fair enough.” He stood up. “Thank you, gentlemen, for your time, your patience and above all your co-operation. I’ll have the cars take you back.”

Wrinfield said: “And yourself? How do you get to Mr Pilgrim’s office?”

“The madame here and I have an understanding of sorts. I’m sure she’ll provide me with some form of transport.” Fawcett had keys in his hand when he approached Pilgrim’s apartment — Pilgrim both worked and slept in the same premises — but he put them away. Pilgrim, most uncharacteristically, had not even locked his door, he hadn’t even closed it properly. Fawcett pushed the door and went inside. The first partly irrational thought that occurred to him was that he could have been just that little bit optimistic when he had assured Wrinfield that Pilgrim knew what he was doing.

Pilgrim was lying on the carpet. Whoever had left him lying there had clearly a sufficiency of ice-picks at home, for he hadn’t even bothered to remove the one he’d left buried to the hilt in the back of Pilgrim’s neck. Death must have been instantaneous, for there wasn’t even a drop of blood to stain his Turnbull and Asser shirt. Fawcett knelt and looked at the face. It was as calmly expressionless as it had habitually been in life. Pilgrim had not only not known what hit him, he hadn’t even known he’d been hit.

Fawcett straightened, crossed to the phone and lifted it.

“Dr Harper, please. Ask him to come here immediately.” Dr Harper wasn’t exactly a caricature or a conceptualized prototype of the kindly healer, but it would have been difficult to visualize him in any other role. There was a certain medical inevitability about him. He was tall, lean, distinguished in appearance, becomingly grey at the temples and wore a pair of pebbled horn-rimmed glasses which lent his gaze a certain piercing quality which might have been illusory, intentional or just habitual. Horn-rimmed pebble glasses are a great help to doctors; the patient can never tell whether he is in robust health or has only weeks to live. His dress was as immaculate as that of the dead man he was thoughtfully examining. He had his black medical bag with him but wasn’t bothering to use it. He said: “So that’s all you know about tonight?” “That’s all.”

“Wrinfield? After all, he was the only one who knew. Before tonight, I mean.”

“He knew no details before tonight. No way. And he’d no opportunity. He was with me.”

“There’s such a thing as an accomplice?”

“No chance. Wait until you see him. His record’s immaculate — don’t you think Pilgrim spent days checking. His patriotism is beyond question, it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s got a ›God Bless America‹ label sewn on to his undershirt. Besides, do you think he would have gone to the time and trouble of arranging to take his whole damn circus — well, most of it — to Europe if he had intended to do this? I know there’s such a thing as erecting a facade, laying down a smokescreen, dragging red herrings — you name it — but, well, I ask you.” “It’s not likely.”

“But I think we should have him and Bruno up here. Just to let them see what they’re up against. And we’ll have to notify the admiral immediately. Will you do that while I get hold of Barker and Masters?”

“That’s the scrambler there?”

“That’s the scrambler.”

Dr Harper was still on the phone when Barker and Masters arrived, Barker the driver and Masters the grey man who had confronted Bruno on the stage. Fawcett said: “Get Wrinfield and Bruno up here. Tell them it’s desperately urgent but don’t tell them anything about this. Bring them in by the rear tunnel. Be quick!”

Fawcett closed but did not lock the door behind them as Dr Harper hung up. Harper said: “We’re to keep it under wraps. According to the admiral, who is the one man who would know, he had no close relatives so he died of a heart attack. Me and my Hippocratic oath. He’ll be right round.” Fawcett was gloomy. “I thought he might be. He’s going to be very happy about this. Pilgrim was the apple of his eye, and it’s no secret that he was next in line for the admiral’s chair. Well, let’s have up a couple of the boys with their little cans of dusting powder and let them have a look around. Not, of course, that they’ll find anything.”

“You’re so sure?”

“I’m sure. Anyone cool enough to walk away leaving the murder weapon in situ, as it were, is pretty confident in himself. And you notice the way he’s lying, feet to the door, head pointing away?”

“So?”

“The fact that he’s so close to the door is almost sure proof that Pilgrim opened it himself. Would he have turned his back on a murderer? Whoever the killer was, he was a man Pilgrim not only knew but trusted.”

Fawcett had been right. The two experts who had come up with their little box of tricks had turned up nothing. The only places where fingerprints might conceivably have been, on the ice-pick handle and door-knobs were predictably clean. They were just leaving when a man entered without benefit of either permission or knocking.

The admiral looked like everybody’s favourite uncle or a successful farmer or, indeed, what he was, a fleet admiral, albeit retired. Burly, red-faced, with pepper-and-salt hair and radiating an oddly kind authority, he looked about ten years younger than his acknowledged if frequently questioned fifty five. He gazed down at the dead man on the floor, and the more kindly aspect of his character vanished. He turned to Dr Harper.

“Made out the death certificate yet? Coronary, of course.” Dr Harper shook his head. “Then do so at once and have Pilgrim removed to our private mortuary.”

Fawcett said: “If we could leave that for a moment, sir. The mortuary bit, I mean. I have two people coming up here very shortly, the owner of the circus and our latest — ah — recruit. I’m convinced neither of them has anything to do with this — but it would be interesting to see their reactions. Also, to find out if they still want to go through with this.” “What guarantee can you offer that they won’t leave here and head for the nearest telephone? There isn’t a newspaper in the country that wouldn’t give their assistant editor for this story.” “You think that had not occurred to me, sir?” A slightly less than cordial note had crept into Fawcett’s tone. “There is no guarantee. There’s only my judgement.”

“There’s that,” the admiral said pacifically. It was the nearest he could ever bring himself to an apology. “Very well.” He paused and to recover his position said: “They are not, I trust, knocking and entering by the front door?”

“Barker and Masters are bringing them. By the rear tunnel.” As if on cue, Barker and Masters appeared in the doorway, then stepped aside to let Wrinfield and Bruno in. The admiral and Dr Harper, Fawcett knew, were watching their faces as intently as he was. Understandably, neither Wrinfield nor Bruno was watching them: when you find a murdered man lying at your feet your ocular attention does not tend to stray. Predictably, Bruno’s reactions were minimal, the narrowing of the eyes, the tightening of the mouth could have been as much imagined as real, but Wrinfield’s reactions were all that anyone could have wished for: the colour drained from his face, leaving it a dirty grey, he put out a trembling hand against the lintel to steady himself and for a moment he looked as if he might even sway and fall.

Three minutes later, three minutes during which Fawcett had told him what little he knew, a seated Wrinfield, brandy glass in hand, was still shaking. Bruno had declined the offer of a restorative. The admiral had taken the floor. He said to Wrinfield: “Do you have any enemies in the circus?”

“Enemies? In the circus?” Wrinfield was clearly taken aback. “Good God, no. I know it must sound corny to you but we really are one big happy family.”

“Any enemies anywhere?”

“Every successful man has. Of a kind, that is. Well, there’s rivalry, competition, envy. But enemies?” He looked almost fearfully at Pilgrim and shuddered. “But not in this way.” He was silent for a moment, then looked at the admiral with an expression that approximated pretty closely to resentment and when he spoke again the tremor had gone from his voice. “And why do you ask me those questions? They didn’t kill me. They killed Mr Pilgrim.”

“There’s a connection. Fawcett?”

“There’s a connection. I may speak freely, sir?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Well, there are telephone boxes and sacrificial assistant editors —” “Don’t be a fool. I’ve already apologized for that.” “Yes, sir.” Fawcett briefly searched his memory and found no apology there. It seemed pointless to mention this. “As you say, sir, there’s a connection. There’s also been a leak and it can only have come from within our own organization. As I said, sir, and as I have explained to these gentlemen, it’s clear that Pilgrim was killed by someone well known to him. There can’t have been any specific leak — only you, Pilgrim, Dr Harper and myself really knew what the intentions were. But any of up to a dozen people more — researchers, telephone operators, drivers — within the organization knew that we had been in regular touch with Mr Wrinfield. It would be unusual, if not unique, to find any intelligence or counter-intelligence agency in the world whose ranks have not been infiltrated by an enemy agent, one who eventually becomes so securely entrenched as to become above suspicion. It would be naive of us to assume that we are the sole exception. It was hardly top secret that Mr Wrinfield had been in the formative stages of planning a European tour — a primarily eastern European tour — and it would have been comparatively simple to discover that Crau was on the list of towns to be visited. As far as the gentlemen in Crau are concerned — more precisely, the gentlemen responsible for the research taking place in Crau — coincidence could be coincidence but the obvious tie-up with the CIA would be that little bit too much.” “So why kill Pilgrim? As a warning?”

“In a way, sir, yes.”

“You would care to be more specific, Mr Fawcett?” “Yes, sir. No question but that it was a warning. But to make Pilgrim’s death both understandable and justifiable from their point of view — for we have to remember that though we are dealing with unreasonable men we are also dealing with reasoning men — it had to be something more than just a warning. His murder was also an amalgam of invitation and provocation. It is a warning they wished to be ignored. If they believe Mr Wrinfield’s forthcoming tour is sponsored by us, and if, in spite of Pilgrim’s death — which they won’t for a moment doubt that we’ll be convinced has been engineered by them — we still go ahead and proceed with the tour, then we must have extraordinarily pressing needs to make it. Conclusive proof they would expect to find in Crau.

And then we would be discredited internationally. Imagine, if you can, the sensational impact of the news of the internment of an entire circus. Imagine the tremendously powerful bargaining weapon it would give the East in any future negotiations. We’d become an international laughing stock, all credibility throughout the world gone, an object of ridicule in both East and West. The Gary Powers U-plane episode would be a bagatelle compared to this.”

“Indeed. Tell me, what’s your opinion of locating this Cuckoo in the CIA nest?”

“As of this moment?”

“Zero.”

“Dr Harper?”

“I agree totally. No chance. It would mean putting a watcher on every one of your several hundred employees in this building, sir.”

“And who’s going to watch the watchers? Is that what you mean?”

“With respect, sir, you know very well what I mean.” “Alas.” The admiral reached into an inside pocket, brought out two cards, handed one to Wrinfield, the other to Bruno. “If you need me, call that number and ask for Charles. Any guesses you may have as to my identity — and you must be almost as stupid as we are if you haven’t made some — you will please keep to yourselves.” He sighed. “Alas again, I fear, Fawcett, that your reading of the matter is entirely correct. There is no alternative explanation, not, at least, a remotely viable one. Nevertheless, getting our hands on this document overrides all other considerations. We may have to think up some other means.”

Fawcett said: “There are no other means.”

Harper said: “There are no other means.”

The admiral nodded. “There are no other means. It’s Bruno or nothing?”

Fawcett shook his head. “It’s Bruno and the circus or nothing.”

“Looks like.” The admiral gazed consideringly at Wrinfield.

“Tell me, do you fancy the idea of being expendable?” Wrinfield drained his glass. His hand was steady again and he was back on balance. “Frankly, I don’t.” “Not even being interned?”

“No.”

“I see your point. It could be bad for business. Am I to take it from that that you have changed your mind?” “I don’t know, I just don’t know.” Wrinfield shifted his gaze, at once both thoughtful and troubled. “Bruno?” “I’ll go.” Bruno’s voice was flat and without colour, certainly with no traces of drama or histrionics in it. “If I have to go, I’ll go alone. I don’t know — yet — how I’ll get there and I don’t know — yet — what I have to do when I arrive. But I’ll go.” Wrinfield sighed. “That’s it, then.” He smiled faintly. “A man can only stand so much. No immigrant American is going to put a fifth generation American to shame.” “Thank you, Mr Wrinfield.” The admiral looked at Bruno with what might have been an expression of either curiosity or assessment on his face. “And thank you, too. Tell me, what makes you so determined to go?”

“I told Mr Fawcett. I hate war.”

The admiral had gone. Dr Harper had gone. Wrinfield and Bruno had gone and Pilgrim had been carried away: in three days’ time he would be buried with all due solemnity and the cause of his death would never be known, a not unusual circumstance among those who plied the trades of espionage and counter-espionage and whose careers had come to an abrupt and unexpected end. Fawcett, his face as bleak and hard as the plumpness of his face would permit, was pacing up and down the dead man’s apartment when the telephone rang. Fawcett picked it up immediately.

The voice in the receiver was hoarse and shaking. It said:

“Fawcett? Fawcett? Is that you, Fawcett?”

“Yes. Who’s that?”

“I can’t tell you over the phone. You known damn well who it is. You got me into this.” The voice was trembling so much as to be virtually unrecognizable. “For God’s sake get down here, something terrible has happened.”

“What?”

“Get down here.” The voice was imploring. “And for God’s sake come alone. I’ll be in my office. The circus office.” The line went dead. Fawcett jiggled the receiver bar but dead the line remained. Fawcett hung up, left the room, locked the door behind him, took the lift to the underground garage and drove down to the circus through the darkness and the rain. The external circus lights were out except for some scattered weak illumination — it was already late enough for all the circus members to have sought their night accommodation aboard the train. Fawcett left the car and hurried into the animals’ quarters, where Wrinfield had his shabby little portable office. The lighting here was fairly good. Signs of human life there were none, which Fawcett, on first reaction, found rather surprising, for Wrinfield had a four-footed fortune in there: the second and almost immediate reaction was that it wasn’t surprising at all for nobody in his right mind was going to make off with an Indian elephant or Nubian lion. Not only were they difficult animals to control, but disposal might have presented a problem. Most of the animals were lying down, asleep, but the elephants, asleep or not and chained by one foreleg, were upright and constantly swaying from side to side and in one large cage twelve Bengal tigers were prowling restlessly around, snarling occasionally for no apparent reason. Fawcett made for Wrinfield’s office then halted in puzzle ment when he saw no light coming from its solitary window. He advanced and tested the door. It wasn’t locked. He opened it and peered inside and then all the world went black for him.