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Authors: Desmond Bagley
Tags: Fiction
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Malleson?’
‘Not even him. I suspect jiggery-pokery at high levels.’ I saw the expression on Ellis’s face, and said irascibly, ‘Not Charlie, for God’s sake! But I want to cut out even the possibility of a leak. Some of our top industrialists are doing some queer things—Sir Andrew McGovern for one. Now, I want a thorough rundown on him; particularly a survey of any relationship he might have had with Paul Billson and with his secretary, Alix Aarvik.’
‘Okay,’ said Jack. ‘I’ll get it started right away.’
I pondered for a moment. ‘Open a routine file on this. Your clients are Michelmore, Veasey and Templeton; send them the bills in the normal way.’ As he raised his eyebrows I said shortly, ‘They’re my solicitors.’
‘Right.’
‘And good luck with the new job.’ It wouldn’t be fair to Jack if he got the idea that when I came back everything would be as it was before, so I said, ‘If you don’t drop too many clangers it’s yours for good. I’m destined for higher things, such as busting into Europe.’
He went away a very happy man.
It’s not easy for a man to disappear into thin air.
Those praiseworthy citizens who form and join societies dedicated to the preservation of civil liberties are quite right in their concern about the ‘data bank’ society. At Stafford Security we weren’t a whit concerned about civil liberties; what we were doing was preserving the industrial secrecy ofour clients, which doesn’t amount to the same thing at all. As a corollary, because we protected against snooping we understood it, and were well equipped to do some snooping ourselves should the mood take us.
The bloodhounds were turned on to Paul Billson. No man living in a so-called civilized society can escape documentation. His name, and sometimes a number attached to his name, is listed on forms without end—driving licence, radio and TV licence, dog licence, income tax return, insurance applications, telephone accounts, gas and electricity accounts, passport applications, visa applications, hire purchase agreements, birth certificate, marriage certificate, death certificate. It seems that half the population is pushing around pieces of paper concerning the other half—and vice versa.
It takes a trained man with a hazy sense of ethics to ferret out another man’s life from the confusion but it can be done, given the time and the money—the less time the more money it takes, that’s all. Jack Ellis hoisted Michelmore, Veasey and Templeton’s bill a few notches and the information started to come in.
Paul Billson applied for a passport the day after he disappeared, appearing in person at the London Passport Office to fill in the form. The same day he applied for an international driving licence. The following day he bought a Land—Rover off the shelf at the main London showroom, paid cash on the barrel and drove it away.
We lost him for a couple of weeks until he picked up his passport, then a quick tour of the consulates by a smooth operator revealed that he had applied for and been granted visas for Niger, Mali, Chad and Libya. That led to the question of what he was doing with the Land—Rover. He had got his green insurance card for foreign travel but a run around the shipping companies found nothing at all. Then our man at Heathrow turned up aninvoice which told that a Mr Billson had air-freighted a Land-Rover to Algiers.
Whatever had happened to Paul had blown him wide open. After a lifetime of inactive griping about injustice, of cold internal anger, of ineffectual mumblings, he had suddenly erupted and was spending money as though he had a private mint. Air freight isn’t cheap.
What Jack had dug up about Billson’s finances was fantastic. The £12,000 in Paul’s deposit account was but the tip of an iceberg, and he had nearly £65,000 to play around with. ‘I don’t know where the hell he got it,’ said Jack.
‘I do,’ I said. ‘He saved it. When he vanished he
‘Not even him. I suspect jiggery-pokery at high levels.’ I saw the expression on Ellis’s face, and said irascibly, ‘Not Charlie, for God’s sake! But I want to cut out even the possibility of a leak. Some of our top industrialists are doing some queer things—Sir Andrew McGovern for one. Now, I want a thorough rundown on him; particularly a survey of any relationship he might have had with Paul Billson and with his secretary, Alix Aarvik.’
‘Okay,’ said Jack. ‘I’ll get it started right away.’
I pondered for a moment. ‘Open a routine file on this. Your clients are Michelmore, Veasey and Templeton; send them the bills in the normal way.’ As he raised his eyebrows I said shortly, ‘They’re my solicitors.’
‘Right.’
‘And good luck with the new job.’ It wouldn’t be fair to Jack if he got the idea that when I came back everything would be as it was before, so I said, ‘If you don’t drop too many clangers it’s yours for good. I’m destined for higher things, such as busting into Europe.’
He went away a very happy man.
It’s not easy for a man to disappear into thin air.
Those praiseworthy citizens who form and join societies dedicated to the preservation of civil liberties are quite right in their concern about the ‘data bank’ society. At Stafford Security we weren’t a whit concerned about civil liberties; what we were doing was preserving the industrial secrecy ofour clients, which doesn’t amount to the same thing at all. As a corollary, because we protected against snooping we understood it, and were well equipped to do some snooping ourselves should the mood take us.
The bloodhounds were turned on to Paul Billson. No man living in a so-called civilized society can escape documentation. His name, and sometimes a number attached to his name, is listed on forms without end—driving licence, radio and TV licence, dog licence, income tax return, insurance applications, telephone accounts, gas and electricity accounts, passport applications, visa applications, hire purchase agreements, birth certificate, marriage certificate, death certificate. It seems that half the population is pushing around pieces of paper concerning the other half—and vice versa.
It takes a trained man with a hazy sense of ethics to ferret out another man’s life from the confusion but it can be done, given the time and the money—the less time the more money it takes, that’s all. Jack Ellis hoisted Michelmore, Veasey and Templeton’s bill a few notches and the information started to come in.
Paul Billson applied for a passport the day after he disappeared, appearing in person at the London Passport Office to fill in the form. The same day he applied for an international driving licence. The following day he bought a Land—Rover off the shelf at the main London showroom, paid cash on the barrel and drove it away.
We lost him for a couple of weeks until he picked up his passport, then a quick tour of the consulates by a smooth operator revealed that he had applied for and been granted visas for Niger, Mali, Chad and Libya. That led to the question of what he was doing with the Land—Rover. He had got his green insurance card for foreign travel but a run around the shipping companies found nothing at all. Then our man at Heathrow turned up aninvoice which told that a Mr Billson had air-freighted a Land-Rover to Algiers.
Whatever had happened to Paul had blown him wide open. After a lifetime of inactive griping about injustice, of cold internal anger, of ineffectual mumblings, he had suddenly erupted and was spending money as though he had a private mint. Air freight isn’t cheap.
What Jack had dug up about Billson’s finances was fantastic. The £12,000 in Paul’s deposit account was but the tip of an iceberg, and he had nearly £65,000 to play around with. ‘I don’t know where the hell he got it,’ said Jack.
‘I do,’ I said. ‘He saved it. When he vanished he
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