Алистер Маклин - Seawitch

‘Of course not. You’re the only man with the power to authorize the closing of the escape routes. Naturally we contacted you first.’

‘And you were perfectly right, Mr Mitchell.’ McGarrity was warm and appreciative, as well he might have been, for he had a very shaky reelection coining up and the massive publicity the kidnapping was bound to generate would guarantee him a virtual shoe-in. ‘I’ll get the wheels turning this end. Keep me posted.’

‘Of course, Chief.’ Mitchell hung up.

Roomer looked at him admiringly. ‘You are an even bigger and smarmier hypocrite than McGarrity.’

‘Practice. Anyway, we got what we wanted.’ Mitchell’s face was sombre. ‘Has it occurred to you that the birds may have flown?’

Roomer looked equally unhappy. ‘It has. But first things first. Lord Worth next?’ Mitchell nodded. ‘I’ll pass this one up. They say that, under provocation, he has a rich command of the English language, not at all aristocratic. I’d be better employed interviewing the staff. I’ll ply them with strong drink to help them overcome the rigours of their ordeal and to loosen their tongues – Lord Worth’s reserve Dom Perignon for choice – and see what I can extract from them. I have little hope. All I can ask them is about descriptions and voices and whether or not they touched anything that might yield up fingerprints. Not that that will help if their prints aren’t on file.’

‘The brandy sounds the best part of your programme. Would you ask Jenkins to bring a large one–’ he looked at Robertson ‘–two large ones?’

Roomer was at the door when he turned. ‘Do you know what happened in ancient times to the bearers of bad news?’

‘I know. They got their heads cut off.’

‘He’ll probably blame us for carelessness and lack of foresight – and he’ll be right, too, even although he’s just as guilty as we are.’ Roomer left.

‘Get me Lord Worth, Jim.’

‘I would if I knew where he was. He was here last night when I left.’

‘He’s on the Seawitch.’

Robertson raised an eyebrow, lowered it, said nothing and turned his attention to the switchboard. He raised the Seawitch in fifteen seconds. Mitchell took the phone.

‘Lord Worth, please.’

‘Hold on.’

Another voice came on, a rasping gravelly voice, not as friendly.

‘What is it that you want?’

‘Lord Worth, please.’

‘How do you know he’s here?’

‘How do I – what does that matter? May I speak to him?’

‘Look, mister, I’m here to protect Lord Worth’s privacy. We get far too many oddball calls from oddball characters. How did you know he was here?’

‘Because he told me.’

‘When?’

‘Last night. About midnight.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Mitchell. Michael Mitchell.’

‘Mitchell.’ Larsen’s tone had quite changed. ‘Why didn’t you say so in the first place?’

‘Because I didn’t expect a Gestapo investigation, that’s why. You must be Commander Larsen?’

‘That’s me.’

‘Not very bloody civil, are you?’

‘I’ve a job to do.’

‘Lord Worth.’

‘He’s not here.’

‘He wouldn’t lie to me.’ Mitchell thought it impolitic to add that he’d actually seen Lord Worth take off.

‘He didn’t lie to you. He was here. He left hours ago to go to Washington.’

Mitchell was silent for a few moments while he re-adjusted himself. ‘Has he got a number where he can be reached?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘I didn’t ask you why he’d gone to Washington. It’s an urgent, private and personal matter. From what I’ve heard of you from Lord Worth, and that’s quite a bit, you’d react in exactly the same way. Give me the number and I’ll call you just as soon as Lord Worth gives me clearance.’

‘Your promise?’

So Mitchell gave him his promise and Larsen gave him the number.

Mitchell replaced the receiver. He said to Robertson: ‘Lord Worth has left the Seawitch and gone to Washington.’

‘He does get around. In his Boeing, I presume?’

‘I didn’t ask. I took that for granted. Do you think you can reach him?’

Robertson didn’t look encouraging. ‘When did he leave the Seawitch?’

‘I don’t know. Should have asked, I suppose. Hours ago, Larsen said.’

Robertson looked even more discouraged. ‘I wouldn’t hold out any hope, Mr Mitchell. With this set I can reach out a couple of thousand miles. Lord Worth’s Boeing can reach any airport not quite as far away, just as the airport can reach him. But the receiving equipment aboard the Boeing hasn’t been modified to receive long-range transmissions from this set, which is a very specialized set indeed. Short-range only. Five hundred miles, if that. The Boeing is bound to be well out of range by now.’

‘Freak weather conditions?’

‘Mighty rare, Mr Mitchell.’

‘Try anyway, Jim.’

He tried and kept on trying for five minutes, during which it became steadily more apparent that Lord Worth was going to have another brief spell of peace before being set up for his coronary. At the end of five minutes Robertson shrugged his shoulders and looked up at Mitchell.

‘Thanks for the try, Jim.’ He gave Robertson a piece of paper with a number on it. ‘Washington. Think you can reach that?’

‘That I can guarantee.’

‘Try for it in half an hour. Ask for Lord Worth. Emphasize the urgency. If you don’t contact him try again every twenty minutes. You have a direct line to the study?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll be there. I have to welcome the law.’

Lord Worth, still happily unaware of his disintegrating world, slept soundly. The Boeing, at 33,000 feet, was just beginning its descent to Dulles airport.

Lord Worth, a glass of scotch in one hand and an illegal Cuban cigar in the other, was comfortably ensconced in a deep armchair in the Assistant Secretary of State’s very plush office. He should have been contented and relaxed: he was, in fact, highly discontented and completely unrelaxed. He was becoming mad, steadily and far from slowly, at the world in general and the four other people in that room in particular.

The four consisted of Howell, the Assistant, a tall, thin, keen-faced man with steel-rimmed glasses who looked like, and in fact was, a Yale professor. The second was his personal assistant, whose name, fittingly enough, Lord Worth had failed to catch, for he had about him the grey anonymity of a top-flight civil servant. The third was Lieutenant-General Zweicker, and all that could be said about him was that he looked every inch a general. The fourth was a middle-aged stenographer who appeared to take notes of the discussion whenever the mood struck her, which didn’t appear to be very often: most likely, long experience had taught her that most of what was said at any conference wasn’t worth noting anyway.

Lord Worth said: ‘I’m a very tired man who has just flown up from the Gulf of Mexico. I have spent twenty-five minutes here and appear to have wasted my time. Well, gentlemen, I have no intention of wasting my time. My time is as important as yours. Correction. It’s a damn sight more important. “The big brush-off”, I believe it’s called.’

‘How can you call it a brush-off? You’re sitting in my office and General Zweicker is here. How many other citizens rate that kind of treatment?’

‘The bigger the façade, the bigger the brush-off. I am not accustomed to dealing with underlings. I am accustomed to dealing with the very top, which I haven’t quite reached yet, but will. The cool, diplomatic, deep-freeze treatment will not work. I am no trouble-maker, but I’ll go to any lengths to secure justice. You can’t sweep me under your diplomatic carpet, Mr Howell. I told you recently that there were international threats to the Seawitch , and you chose either to disbelieve me or ignore me. I come to you now with additional proof that I am under threat – three naval vessels heading for the Seawitch – and still you propose to take no action. And I would point out, incidentally, if you still don’t know independently of the movements of those vessels, then it’s time you got yourselves a new intelligence service.’