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Authors: John Creasey
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began to thump with unnameable fears. Even before she found a light switch, set in the wall, she felt sure she was not in the same room.
And she was not, for a single bulb shed a yellow light about a room with pale green walls and metal furniture – more like a cell or a hospital ward than the pleasant apartment she had lived in for so long.
BOOK II
The Fear
7: Move and Counter-Move
Philip Carr walked slowly along the platform at Euston Station.
He heard people behind him and his body was tense, lest one of these should attack him. There was something ominous about the sharp clap-clap-clap-clap of metal tips, the faintly squelching sound of rubber, even the firm impact of leather. Men hurried; women hurried. There was the metallic rattle of the tall hand baggage carts onto which so many people piled their suitcases, and pushed. Two couples, arm in arm, passed him; and one woman in her twenties was clutching her companion as if afraid that he would run away.
As he, Philip Carr, had run away from Janey.
He gritted his teeth at the memory of her; and of leaving her. There had been no other way, but how it hurt; and how it must hurt her. But without the love affair, he would never have lulled the leaders of The Project into a sense of security. She would never know what value she had been to him: and to so many others.
He wondered: is she safe?
He was as aware of her and his betrayal as he was of these never-ending footsteps, as if with never-ending threat. A woman came running. A porter caught up with him, pushing a heavily laden truck, with tartan suitcases and a heavy leather trunk, as well as some attractive-looking pale green luggage. He was a young-looking negro wearing the British Rail uniform and Teutonic-type cap. As he passed he looked straight ahead but spoke out of the side of his mouth. “You’re okay, sir. The doctor’s having you watched.”
Carr’s heart leapt, and the porter went on at the same steady but fast gait. The end of the platform drew near and the ramp where passengers had to go for the main hall and the taxis. A girl in the pale grey uniform of Mid-Eastern Airways came up to him; dark-haired, Jewish, with beautiful, olive-coloured skin.
“Excuse me, sir.” She made him pause and also made him very wary. “Take an ordinary taxi to Number 1, Romain Square, Pimlico. The doctor will be there.”
“Which doctor?” he asked.
“Palfrey,” she said.
“That’s fine,” he responded, warmly, but he felt more wary still. There was still so much danger; but then, working with Palfrey was all danger. But it paid off! He now knew what Palfrey and others had suspected for some time, that The Project was much more than it had been – or appeared to be – when it had started. Then the consortium of industrialists seeking a way of creating nuclear power had seemed innocent enough. So had their insistence on absolute secrecy, their right to hire their own staff in terms of strictest confidence. The first anxiety had been when some had not returned after their first year’s contract was over, although many – never from the research departments – had come home. Then, there was evidence found by Palfrey and his men, that letters were opened and resealed, an obvious form of censorship.
Enough of this thinking back!
Philip reached the huge, white-floored, white-ceilinged hall, with its bare austerity and the shops on either side, saw the sign: TELEPHONES and went towards it. He reached an empty booth, sat down and glanced round; the Jewish girl was not in sight and no one appeared to be watching. He dialled a number which he knew off by heart and a woman’s voice responded at once: “Z5.”
“Carr,” he said. “Philip Carr. Number 107.”
“Just one moment,” the girl said. “Dr Palfrey’s expecting a call from you.” The moment proved a long one – too long? Several people drew close to the telephones as if anxious to make a call, and from time to time each one
And she was not, for a single bulb shed a yellow light about a room with pale green walls and metal furniture – more like a cell or a hospital ward than the pleasant apartment she had lived in for so long.
BOOK II
The Fear
7: Move and Counter-Move
Philip Carr walked slowly along the platform at Euston Station.
He heard people behind him and his body was tense, lest one of these should attack him. There was something ominous about the sharp clap-clap-clap-clap of metal tips, the faintly squelching sound of rubber, even the firm impact of leather. Men hurried; women hurried. There was the metallic rattle of the tall hand baggage carts onto which so many people piled their suitcases, and pushed. Two couples, arm in arm, passed him; and one woman in her twenties was clutching her companion as if afraid that he would run away.
As he, Philip Carr, had run away from Janey.
He gritted his teeth at the memory of her; and of leaving her. There had been no other way, but how it hurt; and how it must hurt her. But without the love affair, he would never have lulled the leaders of The Project into a sense of security. She would never know what value she had been to him: and to so many others.
He wondered: is she safe?
He was as aware of her and his betrayal as he was of these never-ending footsteps, as if with never-ending threat. A woman came running. A porter caught up with him, pushing a heavily laden truck, with tartan suitcases and a heavy leather trunk, as well as some attractive-looking pale green luggage. He was a young-looking negro wearing the British Rail uniform and Teutonic-type cap. As he passed he looked straight ahead but spoke out of the side of his mouth. “You’re okay, sir. The doctor’s having you watched.”
Carr’s heart leapt, and the porter went on at the same steady but fast gait. The end of the platform drew near and the ramp where passengers had to go for the main hall and the taxis. A girl in the pale grey uniform of Mid-Eastern Airways came up to him; dark-haired, Jewish, with beautiful, olive-coloured skin.
“Excuse me, sir.” She made him pause and also made him very wary. “Take an ordinary taxi to Number 1, Romain Square, Pimlico. The doctor will be there.”
“Which doctor?” he asked.
“Palfrey,” she said.
“That’s fine,” he responded, warmly, but he felt more wary still. There was still so much danger; but then, working with Palfrey was all danger. But it paid off! He now knew what Palfrey and others had suspected for some time, that The Project was much more than it had been – or appeared to be – when it had started. Then the consortium of industrialists seeking a way of creating nuclear power had seemed innocent enough. So had their insistence on absolute secrecy, their right to hire their own staff in terms of strictest confidence. The first anxiety had been when some had not returned after their first year’s contract was over, although many – never from the research departments – had come home. Then, there was evidence found by Palfrey and his men, that letters were opened and resealed, an obvious form of censorship.
Enough of this thinking back!
Philip reached the huge, white-floored, white-ceilinged hall, with its bare austerity and the shops on either side, saw the sign: TELEPHONES and went towards it. He reached an empty booth, sat down and glanced round; the Jewish girl was not in sight and no one appeared to be watching. He dialled a number which he knew off by heart and a woman’s voice responded at once: “Z5.”
“Carr,” he said. “Philip Carr. Number 107.”
“Just one moment,” the girl said. “Dr Palfrey’s expecting a call from you.” The moment proved a long one – too long? Several people drew close to the telephones as if anxious to make a call, and from time to time each one
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