Psychomech (25 page)

‘Yes?’

‘There is one more thing. My plane leaves Milan for London in three days’ time. If you can put me on a train in Naples, I—’

‘Forget it,’ said Garrison.

‘Oh?’ She raised her eyebrows.

‘Yes, for you’re coming home with Willy and me. We leave as soon as
La Ligurienne
puts into Naples.’

‘But my ticket!’

‘Forget that, too. Or I can try to get you a refund. You see, I have my own plane and pilot waiting for me. Occasionally—but not very often, only when I’m in a real hurry—I hire one.’

‘You hire planes?’ Boats and planes. She looked at him in the dawning of a new light. He had said he was extremely rich. ‘Really? And there’s one waiting to take us home to England?’

He nodded. ‘To take us home, yes. To my home, in Sussex.’

Her voice went very quiet and became slightly speculative. ‘Am I to spend some little time with you then, Richard?’

He thought of Schenk’s horoscope, smiled and said, ‘It certainly looks that way, Terri. Unless you decide otherwise. I’d say four or five years at the very least…’

Later, when she had retired to her bunk to catch up on a lot of lost sleep, Garrison spoke to Koenig. ‘You weren’t sleeping, Willy. How much did you hear?’

‘All of it.’

‘And?’

Koenig shrugged, answering carefully: ‘She seems—at first glance, you understand—to have a lot of faults.’

‘If she isn’t an alcoholic already, she turns to drink very quickly in a crisis, I mean.’

‘No need to hide your meaning with me, Willy,’ Garrison said. ‘I know what you mean, and yes, it’s a fault—maybe. But after all, her fix was pretty bloody. And she has suffered emotionally.’

‘So she says,’ Koenig nodded. ‘But isn’t that simply another fault? Hangups? Emotional instability? Also, she’s a quitter. She could have tried harder. But for our intervention—’

‘OK,’ Garrison growled, ‘I get the point.’ He frowned. ‘What about her dream?’

‘That’s difficult to say, but—’ He paused. ‘I’ve given it a little thought. You have to remember, though, that I am not expert in these matters.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, you remember the crossing barrier that got stuck? How you were sending your mental warning signals so thick and fast that I acted before you actually spoke?’

‘Yes, I remember,’ Garrison nodded. He saw the point Willy was making. ‘So you think that perhaps she picked her dream out of my mind, eh?’

‘It could be. You were concentrating so hard on finding her that she son of picked up a telepathic echo. Perhaps that’s how you did find her, how you knew with certainty that Arenzano was the right place.’

‘And the dog? Where does Suzy come into it?’

Again Koenig shrugged. ‘Why, obviously Suzy has been on your mind. Terri picked that up too.’

‘And this bloke Gareth Wyatt?’

‘Ah! Well, he came out of her own mind. According to what she told you, and if she’s been hating him as much as she says, it was only natural that he would crop up in her dreams.’

‘That all seems to make sense,’ Garrison said after a moment, ‘but there’s still something that bothers me. Her fear—of the blind man, I mean.’

‘She was afraid, yes.’ the other answered, ‘but not necessarily afraid of the blind man. Maybe it was Wyatt she feared—certainly she was afraid of the Borcinis. But the blind man was the stranger in her dream—the unknown factor—and so her fear attached itself to him and his dog. After all, an angry, powerful blind man must form a pretty frightening and enigmatic dream-image. Don’t you agree?’

‘No,’ Garrison shook his head, ‘I’m not sure I do. I mean, why should anyone fear—or even think they fear—a blind man?’ He puzzled over it a moment longer, then said: ‘Anyway, forget it. I’ve got her now.’

‘You’ve got her? There is no doubt in your mind, then? She’s definitely “T”?’

‘She’s the one, yes. And from now on in we play it according to the stars. All the way down the line.’

‘And just what is in the stars, do you think? For you and Terri?’

‘I’ll marry her,’ Garrison immediately answered.

Koenig raised his eyebrows. ‘Just like that?’

‘More or less.’ Garrison felt a momentary panic. ‘Willy, she is lovely, isn’t she?’

‘Very.’

‘The thing is,’ Garrison said, ‘I can hardly wait to get my hands on her!’

Koenig was mildly surprised. ‘You are very open,’

‘Why not? If I can’t talk to you, who can I talk to?’

‘Of course.’ Koenig was flattered.

‘You see, Willy, I already know every curve and hollow of that girl’s body. I see it—feel it, I should say—in vivid flashes. Christ, I already half love her! I’ve known her ever since that first dream of mine, the one that started everything, back in Belfast. It seems strange, I know, but I can still
remember
how she feels!’

‘Strange, yes,’ Koenig agreed, ‘for of course you are remembering how she
will
feel!’

And the sun burned on them and the sea breeze blew in their faces as
La Ligurienne
throbbed southwards on the blue, blue sea…

F
or the better part of a fortnight Hans Maas had lived with terror. Terror had walked with him through every waking moment, had slept with him—when he slept at all—in his tumbled bed, had peered over his shoulder, one bony hand clutching his black heart, whenever he opened a newspaper or Gareth Wyatt’s mailbox. Terror born of three apparently unconnected incidents and bred of the ever-present knowledge that sooner or later the past must catch up with him. Or if not with Hans Maas, with Otto Krippner.

The first of the three occurrences had been a brief mention in the press of the demise by suicide of one Nichos Charalambou at his home in Crete. Charalambou, an ex-Nazi no less than Maas, one-time Commandant of the ‘Advanced Medical Unit’ at Saarenlager, had finally been tracked down by Amira Hannes and her squad of Israeli bloodhounds. Before the Israelis had begun any sort of interrogation, however, the old man had shot himself—at least, so it was reported. Certain documents, including a will, discovered in the house at Rethimnon had proved conclusively that Charalambou was in fact Gerhard Keltner, a frightened puppet of a man whose wartime activities had been somewhat more cowardly than criminal. He had been a Nazi, yes, but scorned by the hardliners of the party. Which was why that dirtiest of all jobs, Commandant of the Saarenlager ‘butcher’s shop’, had been given to him. He simply had not dared refuse it!

The prime concern of the Jewish Organization had not been to have Keltner executed (what could be gained from the death of one frail old man?), neither that nor even his humiliation or extradition, they had simply wanted to examine him: to draw upon his memory of names, dates, faces and places. To fill in some of the blanks in the world-spanning jigsaw of their never-ending search. Keltner as a man was small-fry, but he might know the whereabouts of some of the bigger fish.

And the Jews might not have told all. Who could say what they had or had not squeezed from Keltner before he killed himself? This single thought had been the start of the terror for Hans Maas, and it had been reinforced by the arrival of an envelope, German stamped and franked, from one Ernst Grunewald, his cousin in Osnabruck. For he did not have a cousin in Osnabruck and knew no one by the name of Ernst Grunewald. In the fine paper of the letter had been a special watermark, however, which had told him that the real sender was a member of Exodus.

Exodus: one of the most successful of all Nazi escape routes, and named with all the irony and the malice of a smiling skull!

The letter, hand-written, had said simply this:

‘Dear Hans,

I can tell from your last letter how hard you have been working. Isn’t it time you had a holiday? At your age it is dangerous to work too hard. So many of our old friends are gone now (O.K. quite recently, I hear) and I would hate to lose another. There seems to be a creeping sickness about that seeks us out and drags us down. So do give yourself a break, I implore you, and be sure to look after yourself.

I spoke to an old friend of yours in Detmold last week, and he—’

Etc, etc…

But Maas had not concerned himself to read the etceteras. He knew that only the first paragraph was significant, that the rest of it would be meaningless padding. It was only the third such letter he had received in thirty years (the first had been congratulatory, following his successful flight from Germany; likewise the second, upon his initial liaison with Wyatt), and he knew it would never have been sent if the danger were not very real and imminent.

The third and by far the most terrifying manifestation had been the arrival in London of a Jewish delegation for talks on the Middle East problem, and Maas had carefully watched the maddeningly few TV screenings concerning these visitors. The negotiators came of course with their own personal bodyguards, nameless figures who stayed as far as possible in the background—but not beyond the trembling scrutiny of Hans Maas. Mere glimpses, exposures of seconds only—but sufficient to confirm his worst suspicions. The diplomats were here to talk, yes, but what of the sharp-eyed hunters who had come with them? Maas had definitely recognized at least two of them; and now he understood the urgency in the letter from Exodus.

He knew that the circle was closing. What he did not know was that Wyatt was also aware of the net’s closure—and no less terrified!

For some little time, when Wyatt’s limited funds had allowed, Maas had been replacing Psychomech’s older and riskier components; for Wyatt, having long since realized that the machine was a potential goldmine, had determined to sink most of his now almost vanished savings into the project. He had also taken a greater interest in the machine’s mechanics, and he had grown aware that there were facets of its operation about which Maas had deliberately kept him in the dark; but recently, however covertly, he had been studying the monster. And he was growing especially interested in those areas of Psychomech’s hardware which seemed to him superfluous to its prime function. He was of course unaware that these were the components which actually governed that function, and that the function itself was other than he believed it to be. There were several reasons for Wyatt’s unaccustomed curiosity, not the least of them being strictly commercial. He knew that Maas, when he had perfected the thing, would expect a large slice of any takings; possibly to set himself up in business elsewhere—in South America, for example, where the natives were far less suspicious of foreigners and not much given to keeping records. And of course Exodus would expect Wyatt to give Maas every assistance in the realization of any such ambition. Well, Wyatt could hardly complain about that; over the years he had received substantially from Exodus, though recently there had been nothing. Nothing, that is to say, with the exception of a letter delivered just a week ago. It had come from a doubtless fictitious address in Stuttgart, and its message had been quite as simple as that of the letter to Hans Maas. Namely: Wyatt should waste no time in seeing Maas on his way, and even less in covering the German’s tracks.

But here Wyatt had known he was at a disadvantage, which was this:

Any investigator assiduous enough to trace Maas this far would have precious little difficulty in tracking him one stage further. If Maas was going to be found out, he would be found out no matter where he went. And Wyatt with him. Now Wyatt was not a Nazi and never had been, but he had studied psychiatry in Koln in 1955-58, where and when his sympathies had been noted; such sympathies that he had been contacted and recruited by Exodus as a future friend and agent in England. He had been very short of money at the time, and so his seduction had been made that much easier by a considerable payment ‘on account’. Which had seemed to him a very worthwhile transaction considering that his connection with Exodus was to be, initially at least, on a strictly passive basis. Then, in late 1958 he had come to England, and shortly after that his passivity had been abruptly terminated when Maas was ferried across to him.

It was then Wyatt discovered that Maas knew more of every aspect of psychiatry than he could ever hope to learn, and from the very beginning he had leaned upon and drawn from the German’s superior knowledge. Maas, not Wyatt, had written those papers which were now credited to the Englishman, those brilliant if unorthodox theses which had given him a transient (but very profitable) claim to fame. And later… Wyatt’s clients had been amongst the richest men and women in the country, and not one of them had ever suspected that in fact his or her treatment was being directed by one of the cruellest monsters Hitler’s regime had ever spawned.

But… the German’s usefulness was now at an end. He had no money—or very little—no friends, nowhere to run. All he had was Psychomech, and Psychomech was not something he could simply pack up and take with him. Besides, he wasn’t going anywhere. Wyatt had already decided upon that. If and when the pack closed in, it would only be to discover that the ex-Nazi’s trail ended right here… Period.

There was a pool in the grounds of Wyatt’s house, deep and dark and green with waterlilies gone wild; the kind of pool in which things rot and disappear very quickly. Like a body, for instance. A drugged drink one night; a visit to the pool under cover of darkness; lead weights in a belt about the German’s waist. Wyatt would wait until the effect of the drug was beginning to wear off—then topple him gently into the black water. Any struggling would only serve to make the end that much quicker…

—Oh, Hans had been the gardener, that’s all. Not very good at it but… well, hired help was hired help these days. One managed with what one could get. Yes, Hans had been his name. Hans Maas. A German gentleman, yes—not that you’d ever suspect it—spoke perfect English. Who? Otto Krippner? No, no, his name was Maas, be sure of it. Oh, he had saved a little over the years and now had desired to return to Germany for a visit. Well, yes, he had allowed his holiday to run over a little, but he was sure to be back soon. A pretty reliable man really. If only he were a better gardener! Yes, k had been rather sudden, .this desire of his for the old country. Doubtless a whim, a spur-of-the-moment decision. A funny sort of chap, really, come to think of it… Interested in psychiatry? Well, oddly enough he had shown some small initial interest in one’s practice, yes—but that had all been twenty years ago. And when one had been curious about him, about his knowledge of psychiatric matters, why, his interest had quite faded away! What? A war-criminal? A mass-murderer
Incredible!
Incredible! Who, Hans? That quiet, likeable little chap? Really? Were they absolutely certain they had the right man…?