Читать книгу Billion-Dollar Brain - Len Deighton - Страница 16

Saturday. Dr Pike was in St James’s Park before me. He was sitting on the bench near the pond reading the Financial Times exactly as arranged. So, not to spoil the fun, I asked him about the stock exchange and he lent me his paper. He was dressed more prosperously than he had been at the surgery: saxony suit, tweed fisher hat and a short reversible raincoat with knitted collar. He flipped his cuff upon a gold wristwatch as I took his newspaper.

‘It’s incredibly cold,’ Pike said.

‘I didn’t come a thousand miles to discuss the weather. Where’s the package?’

‘Steady on,’ said Pike. ‘It will probably be ready today, don’t fret.’

‘Did you have me followed yesterday, Pike?’ I asked.

‘Nigel, don’t put your new shoes in the water, there’s a good boy. No certainly not. Why should I?’

Nigel stopped putting his new shoes in the water and began to poke a large Labrador with his toy whistle.

‘Someone did.’

‘Not me. The doggy doesn’t like that, Nigel.’

‘So you won’t mind if I have him laid out?’

‘Couldn’t care less. He’s growling to tell you he doesn’t like it, Nigel. Have him killed for all I care.’

‘And you still say you don’t know who it is?’

‘Mr Dempsey or whoever you are: I do a job and keep my nose clean. If the people for whom we work send someone to follow you and you decide to brain the fellow, good luck. He thinks you are giving him the whistle to play with, Nigel. Good doggy, give Nigel his whistle back; good doggy, stroke him, Nigel, show you want to be friends. Anything the fellow gets will serve him right for being inefficient. Too much inefficiency in this country at the moment. People are damned slack. Brain him by all means. It might teach the top people to keep me informed.’

Dr Pike went and retrieved Nigel’s whistle and brought Nigel back to where we were sitting.

‘Look at your hands.’ Pike produced a large handkerchief, held it for the child to spit on, then wiped his hands with the damp cloth. It seemed unhygienic.

‘Where is the package now?’

‘At my brother’s, I think.’ He looked at his watch again and did some sort of calculation. ‘At my brother’s. It’s tar, Nigel. I told you not to touch the fence. Tuck your scarf in; don’t want to catch cold.’

‘How far is that?’

‘There you are. A nice clean boy. Besterton, a village near Buckingham.’

‘Let’s go,’ I said.

‘I’d like to drop young Nigel first,’ Pike said. Me too, I thought, right into the lake.

‘They think you want to give them bread, Nigel. I’ll take him to his riding school. Then we’ll go on from there. It’s not far out of our way. They won’t hurt you, Nigel, nice kind ducks. Don’t be frightened, they won’t hurt you. Shall we go in my car?’

‘Suits me.’

‘They think you want to give them bread. Well, we’ll walk that way. No; they never hurt nice little boys. My Jaguar’s the red one. Don’t kick gravel at the ducks, Nigel, you’ll spoil your shoes.’

Doctor Felix Pike and his brother Ralph both lived in a small village. There was a sharp frontier between the houses of the natives – plaster gnomes, nylon curtains, metal-frame windows and pre-fab garages – and the houses of the invaders – modern sculpture, whitewash, antique gates, brown wainscoting, grandfather clocks. Pike drove up to a modern version of a Georgian house. In the drive there was a silver Porsche convertible. ‘My brother’s car,’ Pike said. ‘He’s not married,’ as though the car was an automatic reward for a remarkable feat; which I suppose in a way it was. ‘My younger brother Ralph lives there,’ Felix Pike said pointing to a converted limestone barn adjacent to his house. The driveway was full of bronze urns and the house was full of regency stripes, illuminated niches, wall-to-wall Wilton and furniture with bobbles on. There was a sweet smell of lavender polish as we walked through a couple of rooms that were just for walking through, into what Mrs Pike – a tightly scripted woman with mauve hair – called the small lounge. There was a quartet of Queen Anne chairs arranged round a late-medieval electric fire. We sat down.

Through the french windows the lawn was the size of a small landing strip. Beyond it six bonfires built tall columns of smoke on flickering bases of flame, as though a besieging army were encamped there among the bare foggy trees.

The woman with mauve hair waved to the nearest fire and a man threw a final shovel-load of something on to it and walked to the patio. He wiped the blade of the shovel clean with a wire brush and placed it in a wooden box. He brushed his boots upon the mat, then entered through the french windows. He wore those sort of worn-out ancient clothes that the English upper classes wear on Sundays to distinguish them from the people who wear their best clothes on that day. He adjusted the silk choker at his throat as though it was a mosquito net, and I was a mosquito.

‘This is my younger brother, Ralph,’ said Dr Felix Pike. ‘He lives next door.’

‘Hello,’ I said. We shook hands, and Ralph said, ‘Good man’ in the low sincere voice they use in films just before they do something dangerous. Then, in case the old clothes and choker should have misled me, he produced a hide case containing six Cristo No. 2s. He offered them round, but I preferred my Gauloises.

This man Ralph was younger than the first Pike, perhaps not even forty in spite of his pure white hair. He was slightly flushed and shiny with the exertions of gardening, and although at least twenty pounds heavier than his brother he either had it well strapped up or did thirty push-ups before breakfast. He smiled that same tricky smile that his brother Felix had. He fished a gold cigar-cutter from his gardening waistcoat and circumcised his cigar.

‘Things at the surgery,’ said Ralph, the one in gardening clothes, as if he was offering them with the cigars. His foreign accent was a trace heavier than his elder brother’s.

‘Fine,’ said Felix Pike. ‘Fine.’

‘I do the honours?’ Ralph asked and without pausing poured us all brandy and soda into heavy cut-glass goblets.

Dr Felix Pike said, ‘And I trust all your …’ His voice trailed away.

‘Fine,’ said the man in gardening clothes. He lit his cigar with care and sat down in a hard chair to avoid soiling the chintz.

Dr Felix Pike said, ‘I see our Corrugated Holdings dropped a packet, Ralph.’

Ralph exhaled without haste. ‘Sold Thursday. Sell while they’re rising; don’t I always tell you that? Certum voto pete finem, as Horace says.’ Ralph Pike turned to me and said, ‘Certum voto pete finem: set a limit to your desire.’ I nodded and Dr Felix Pike nodded and Ralph smiled kindly.

Ralph said, ‘When I go public I’ll look after you, never fear. I’ll give you a green form, Felix. And hold on to them this time. Don’t do an in-and-out as you did with the Waldner shares. If you want a word of advice: unload your coppers and tins; they’re going to take a nasty drop. Mark my advice, a nasty drop.’

Dr Felix Pike didn’t like taking advice from his younger brother. He stared at him fixedly and moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue.

Ralph said, ‘You should remember that, Felix.’

‘Yes,’ said Dr Felix Pike. His mouth slammed down like a guillotine blade. It was a nasty mouth, an all-or-nothing device that closed like a trap, and when it opened you expected a greyhound to leap out.

Ralph smiled, ‘Been down to the boat lately?’

‘Was going today.’ He stabbed a thumb at me as though soliciting a ride on a lorry. ‘Then this came up.’

‘Bad luck,’ said Ralph. He pinged my empty goblet with his fingernail. ‘Another?’

‘No thanks.’

‘Felix?’

‘No,’ said Dr Felix Pike.

‘Did Nigel like the sub-machine gun?’

‘Loved it. He wakes us up every morning. I’m not supposed to thank you because he’s writing to you himself; with chalk on brown paper.’

‘Ha ha,’ said Ralph. ‘Arma virumque cano.’ He turned to me and said, ‘Of arms and the man I sing. Virgil.’

I said, ‘Adeo in teneris consuescere multum est. As the twig is bent the tree inclines. Also Virgil.’ There was a silence, then Dr Pike said ‘Nigel loved it’ again, and they both stared at the garden. ‘Do have another,’ Ralph offered.

‘No,’ said Dr Felix Pike. ‘I must change, we have people coming.’

‘Mr Dempsey will be wanting the package,’ said Ralph, as if I wasn’t listening.

‘That’s right,’ I said, to prove I was.

‘Good man.’ He kissed the cigar affectionately but fearfully, as if there was a good chance it might explode. ‘I brought it today,’ he said. ‘It’s switched on.’

‘Good,’ I said.

I reached into my back pocket and produced my torn half of the five-mark note. Dr Felix Pike walked across to one of the illuminated nooks. He moved two soft-focus portraits of his wife, another of those shiny brown spheres that I’d seen at the surgery – and finally found his half of the note under one of the Staffordshire figures that were drawn up in ranks along the glass shelves. He passed the half banknote to his brother Ralph, who fitted the two halves together in the same casual but careful way that he had handled the spade and cigar.

‘Right,’ he said, and went to get my half-dozen eggs for Helsinki. The package was wrapped in that plain discreet green paper that Harrods use. It was tied with a little loop to carry it. Before we left Ralph said that coppers would take a nasty drop again.

Dr Pike would like very much to have given me a lift back to the centre of town but … I understood, didn’t I? Yes. I took a bus.

The fog had become thicker and was that sort of green they call a ‘pea-souper’. The shoe shops were prisms of yellow light and past them buses were trumpeting, ambling aimlessly like a herd of dirty red elephants looking for a place to die.

I held the green-wrapped package on my knees and developed a distinct impression that it was ticking. I wondered why the second Mr Pike had said it was switched on but I didn’t intend to find out the hard way.

Waiting for me at Charlotte Street was one of the ‘bombers’.

‘Here it is,’ I said. ‘Easy does it, I’d like to deliver it in one piece.’

‘I’m not taking chances today,’ said the duty bomber. ‘I’ve got a steak-and-kidney pudding waiting for me tonight.’

‘Take your time,’ I said. ‘It’s the long slow simmering that produces the flavour.’

‘You got a little huffy last night,’ Dawlish said.

I said, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be,’ said Dawlish. ‘You were right. You have instinct that comes from training and experience. I won’t interfere again.’ I made noises like a man who doesn’t want compliments.

Dawlish smiled. ‘I don’t say I won’t have you fired or transferred, but I won’t interfere.’ He toyed with his fountain-pen as though uncertain how to break the news. ‘They don’t like it,’ he said finally. ‘The written memo went to the Minister this morning.’

‘What did the memo say?’

‘Precious little,’ said Dawlish. ‘One sheet of foolscap double-spaced. I pretended it was a précis.’ He smiled again. ‘We’ve known about this organization run by Midwinter but we’ve never had it linked to this country before. Both these Pike brothers are Latvian; they hold extreme right political views and the one named Ralph is a top biochemist. That’s what the memo said and it worried the Minister sick. I’ve been over there twice today and neither time did I have to wait longer than three minutes. It’s a sure sign. Worried sick.’ Dawlish tutted and I tutted in sympathy. ‘Stick close to your friend Newbegin,’ said Dawlish. ‘Get into this Midwinter organization and take a good look at it. I only hope yesterday won’t make it dangerous for you.’

‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘The Americans are not spiteful, whatever other faults they have.’

‘Good,’ said Dawlish. He poured me a glass of port and talked about the set of six dram glasses he had bought in Portobello Road.

‘Might be eighteenth-century. They call that trumpet-bowled, see?’

‘Great,’ I said. ‘But aren’t there only five glasses?’

‘Ahh! Set of six with one missing.’

‘Ahh,’ I said.

Dawlish’s squawk-box buzzed and the bomber’s voice said, ‘Can I talk, Mr D?’

‘Go ahead,’ Dawlish said.

‘I’ve got it on the X-ray. It’s got electrical wiring in it so I want to go slowly, Mr Dawlish.’

‘Good Heavens yes,’ said Dawlish. ‘One doesn’t want the building blown to smithereens.’

‘Two doesn’t,’ said the duty bomber, and then he laughed and said it again, ‘two doesn’t.’

The small metal box that the Pike brothers had given me contained six fertile eggs and an electrical device that kept them at a constant temperature of 37° Centigrade. Each egg-shell had a wax-pencilled number, a filled notch and a puncture. Through the hyaline membrane of each egg a hypodermic needle had inserted a living virus. The eggs had been stolen from the Microbiological Research Establishment at Porton. The duty driver took them back to that quiet and picturesque corner of old England at five o’clock that morning, using a blanket and hot-water bottle to keep them warm and alive.

For my trip to Helsinki Dawlish and I put six medium-grade new-laid into the metal box. We got them from the canteen, but had a terrible job removing the little lion stamp-marks that guarantee purity.