“Why does she have to stay?”
“Now don’t worry on that score. I explained to her before we started that she might have to stay for a day or two. She didn’t mind so long as you didn’t mind.”
“You haven’t told me why she has to stay.”
“Let me just say this. It’s going to take some sorting out. All a bit tangled up if you know what I mean. But we’ve given her a relaxing drug that means she has to have proper medical supervision.”
“Can I see her before I go?”
“She’s asleep at the moment. It’s better not to disturb her. Now a message or two.”
Salmon pulled down his glasses and took a scrap of paper from his pocket.
“Ah yes. She sends you her love and says not to worry. And she asks if you can bring her pale-blue nightie, her dressing gown and bedroom slippers. And asks if you would check with her assistant at the office that all is OK. And that’s it.”
“I’ll come tomorrow with her things.”
“Good. Do you know the way out? Along the passage then turn right where it says ‘Laundry.’ ”
For the first time in his life Steve Randall was lonely and depressed. His nightly act seemed to exhaust him and he knew that he had lost his bounce. His usual amiable patter with his volunteers and his audience seemed desperately flat. He had never thought before about hypnosis as being more than an entertainment or maybe a cure for smoking or drinking. The girl had been in hospital over a month now. He had gone there every day but not been allowed to see her. And when it became obvious that that would continue he went only every three days. Salmon had explained that she was physically well, not distressed in any way and they were slowly and carefully unravelling the tangle in her mind.
He was lonely because he missed her, but he was depressed because it made him realize how vulnerable and unprotected she was. No parents, no family, not even a distant relative. He was all she had. But he had no standing in law. He was just a friend. He could enquire, but he couldn’t demand to be told. He wasn’t a husband. And it brought home to him that he was exactly the same. One cousin, God knows how many times removed. Last heard of in Belfast when he was a child. It had never got him down before. His life was too full and too interesting to give it a thought. But he was giving it a lot of thought now.
He spent his mornings at her agency. Helping where he could to keep things going smoothly. In the afternoon he slept or visited the hospital. At night he had the theatre, and on very bad days he brought home a bottle of whisky. He had moved into the girl’s flat because it was a small consolation to be surrounded by her things.
It was one of the bad nights that he dialled the Washington number. It rang only twice before the receiver was picked up.
“CIA Langley, can I help you?”
For a moment he was so shocked that he couldn’t speak, and the voice at the other end said again, “CIA Langley. Can I help you?”
“I want to speak to Joe Spellman.”
“Who? … ah yes. One moment please.”
There were some clicks and a long pause and then a man’s voice.
“Can I help you?”
“I want to speak to Joe Spellman.”
There was a pause and then the phone was hung up. He dialled the number again. It rang for almost a minute before a voice cut in. “International operator, White Plains, can I help you?”
“I want Washington 547–9077.”
“Have you dialled the number?”
“Yes.”
“And what happened?”
“Someone answered but I was cut off.”
“Hold the line. I’ll try again for you.”
There was about thirty seconds pause and the girl came back again.
“Would you repeat the number please.”
“Washington 547–9077.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I’ve checked. There’s no such number listed. Do you know the name of the party you’re calling?”
“Yes. CIA at Langley.”
“Let me check for you.”
She was back quite quickly. “That number’s not listed for CIA Langley or their office in downtown Washington. I can give you their general enquiries number at Langley if that would help.”
“No thanks. Thank you for trying.”
“You’re welcome.”
Randall put down the phone. He didn’t sleep that night.
It was on Boyd’s fourth day back that he got the call from Ansell. The doctor didn’t want to talk on the phone and suggested that he should fly up to Manchester as soon as possible.
Ansell seemed very nervous when they met in the foyer of The Midland. Not like psychiatrists are supposed to look; and as they walked into the residents’ lounge Boyd, without thinking, put his hand on Ansell’s shoulder. “Let me get you a drink.”
The doctor shook his head. “I’d rather get rid of my little pack of trouble first.”
They sat in the furthest corner in the big leather armchairs and Ansell leaned forward as he started to speak.
“The good bit first. I’ve found out roughly where this bloody house is supposed to be. It’s not Hamburg. It’s just outside Hamburg. A place called Harburg. The house is at the edge of a wood and it’s been taken over by the army. You can hear the full description on the tapes. I’d say it’s enough for you to trace it.”
“What’s the bad news?”
“In the first level of hypnosis he calls himself Dickens. He’s told me quite a lot about Dickens. Dickens is a hoodlum. A heavy for a gang of villains somewhere in London. I think it’s in Shepherd’s Bush or near there. But while I was trying to get down to the second level I tried a whole series of words to do with Dickens characters that might be the code into the second level. None of them worked but for a few moments he changed completely and he was talking about being a sergeant in Special Air Services. He
