Boyd walked quietly over to the tables and looked at the titles of the books without touching them. The Manufacture of Madness by Thomas Szasz, A Handbook of Contemporary Soviet Psychology, and Conditioned Reflexes by I. P. Pavlov. He opened one of the file covers and turned over a few pages. They were typed, and the names in the text were in capitals which made them leap out from the page. He read the first line on the page twice.
“… the hypnosis programming of LEE HARVEY OSWALD was less complex. He carried out the instructions exactly, but the shooting of patrolman TIPPIT was an echo reflex. It was clear from the transcript of his interrogation at Dallas Police Station that there was no possibility of him recalling either the act or the hypnosis. Only fear on the part of the secondary collaborators outside CIA caused the killing of OSWALD by RUBY. This unnecessary action prevented us from continuing the …”
Boyd closed the file carefully and looked at the second file. Every page was a graph or tables of figures. He took the first file and tucked it under his arm. That could be his equivalent of an insurance policy. He listened carefully at the next bedroom door but there was no sound from inside. He opened the door and put on his torch. It was a much smaller room, furnished as a bedroom with a single bed. There was nobody in it and he closed the door.
His hand was reaching for the old-fashioned brass handle on the next bedroom door when he heard a noise inside the room. The click of metal on glass and soft shuffling, and then the door opened. A man stood there, his eyes half open, a tumbler in his hand. He was wearing a red dressing gown draped over his shoulders. The man blinked and said thickly, “Are you one of Carter’s men?” Then he saw the gun in Boyd’s hand. “Say. What is this?”
“Go back in your room. Keep your voice down.” Boyd touched the muzzle of the Walther to the man’s naked belly. He backed away slowly and raised his arms. There was a sweater and slacks on a chair by the bed.
“Put those on.” Boyd pointed at the clothes.
As he pulled on his shoes the man said, “Just tell me who you are and what you want. There’s no need for all this …” he shrugged “… whatever it is.”
“What’s your name?”
“Smith. I’m just a doctor on leave.”
“Stand up.”
And as the man stood up Boyd knew that the handcuffs and the nylon rope wouldn’t be necessary. He would come quietly enough.
Boyd looked at the man’s pale face.
“You’re Symons aren’t you?” The man nodded, and Boyd took the file cover from under his arm turning it for the man to see.
“Did you write this report?”
Boyd saw real fear in the man’s eyes. And the fear was not of him. He put the gun against the man’s belly and said softly, “Did you write it, Symons?”
“Yes.” Symons’s whisper was almost inaudible and in that moment Boyd did what his training and experience both abhorred. He changed his plan. This was the man who mattered. Instinct told him that.
“Walk quietly down the stairs to the front door.”
“What are you going to do with me?”
“If you cooperate and go quietly we’re only going to talk. If you try and play games you’ll get hurt. Badly hurt.”
Boyd waved the gun towards the bedroom door. “Get moving.”
For a moment, at the front door, Symons hesitated and stopped, but he groaned and moved on as the muzzle of the gun ground against his spine.
At the car Boyd handcuffed Symons’s hands behind his back and slid the cut foam sponge into his mouth before bundling him into the back seat.
Boyd drove slowly and carefully along the empty roads, through the small lanes and finally he turned into the rough drive up to the cottage.
The two men sat facing each other on opposite sides of the kitchen table. To a casual observer they would have looked merely like two men talking as they drank from the flower-decorated mugs. Only the fact that one man held his mug with both hands might have led one to notice that his hands were handcuffed. Boyd put down his mug and folded his arms, and Symons relaxed as he noted the traditional defensive gesture.
There had been no violence and Symons had had no sleep but he was slowly regaining his self-confidence. The Englishman was a slow talker and Symons assessed him as having a slow mind too. He could hold out without difficulty against this man’s laboured thinking. And before long Petersen would be raising the alarm and the rescue would be in full swing.
“I can’t believe you’re an intelligence officer, Mr. Boyd.”
“Why not?”
“If you were bona-fide you wouldn’t be doing this. If the British authorities had any grounds for complaint they would take it up with the US Embassy.”
“You both have Canadian passports.”
“So what?”
“So you’re an illegal entrant. You’ve committed at least half a dozen offences under the Immigration Regulations 1972. Any one of which allows a police officer to arrest you without a warrant.”
Symons smiled. “But you’re not a police officer. I’m quite willing to go with you to a police station right now.”
“Tell me about Walker.”
Symons smiled. “I couldn’t possibly discuss a patient with you, Mr. Boyd.”
Symons was still smiling as Boyd’s fist smashed into his face. His clenched hands came up to hold his nose and mouth as the bright red blood streamed through his fingers. Boyd made no move to help him. He just watched, still seething with anger at the man’s hypocritical jibe. Slowly his anger subsided. When Symons moved his hands Boyd saw that the man’s nose was broken and his soft lips were swollen and split.
“Tell me about Walker.”
Symons was trembling, shivering out of control, and as Boyd clenched his fist again Symons said, “There’s no need for that, you
