Psychosphere (12 page)

And with that he lay back his head and let the pain roll over him, bearing him swiftly away upon a dark red cloud of unconsciousness…

G
ARRISON HURLED HIS BOLT OF ESP-ENERGY—AND IN HIS MIND'S EYE
he saw the wizard struck and hurled back from the satanic circle. But—no time to stay and savor the event. No time to wait and see if this wizard lived or died. Time merely for a final glance at the shewstone before returning his mind to the plunging Machine. One glance…but sufficient to tell him all he needed to know
.

For in the shewstone the toy Machine's monstrous descent was halted and a tiny, triumphant Garrison sat upon its back, howling his victory, shaking his fists and beating his breast!

Garrison thrust the vision away, returned his mind to the Here, the Now, the Chasm and the Plunge. And
…

…
The wind no longer howled past his head, Psychomech no longer plunged, Suzy no longer yelped her terror but licked his ear and whined worriedly. The Machine stood still upon the air, held there by Garrison's power returned. And if he had stepped down from the Machine, then he could have stood upon the chasm's boulder-strewn floor
.

That
close!

He did not step down but stood up, stood tall upon the Machine's broad back and howled his victory and shook his fist—behaving even as the tiny Garrison in the crystal had behaved—and Suzy's sardonic baying gave strength to his own, until the chasm rang to the echoes of their laughter
.

Then, upward to the narrow crack of star-scattered sky which was the great rift's mouth, Garrison rode the Machine. Upward and outward, and away upon his quest
…

The meeting was of ten men; if not the most important or influential men in the British Isles, certainly their representatives. It had been convened secretly, through government channels, and its Chairman was the head of an obscure branch of the Secret Service. Obscure in the sense that it dealt with “obscurities,” current jargon for tasks which were too intricate, problematic, sensitive or bloody for the talents and tastes of its contemporaries.

The Chairman was an extremely tall, slim man whose high-domed head and shifty, piercing blue eyes spoke of a foxy intelligence. His hands were very long, delicate and fragile-looking, as were his features, but there was nothing fragile about his mind. That was a steel trap.

Of the others gathered about the long, polished table: with the sole exception of a small and wiry yellow man, they were white, in the main British or of European extraction. Their fields were Finance (mainly banking), Mineral Rights and Mining (oil, gold and diamonds, etc.), Transport (shipping and airlines), Telecommunications (including computers), Weapons (the manufacture, sale and control of such), and Espionage (on a more general or at least more easily recognizable level than that of The Chairman, namely MI6.) There was also an Official Observer, governmental of course, and finally a Man from the Inland Reserve.

MI6 had brought someone along for the ride, his aide, apparently: a silent, gray-eyed, stony-calm wedge of a man whose movements, despite their almost robotic precision, were remarkably adroit, hinting at great speed, strength and coordination. He sat back a little from the table, unobtrusively reading from (or writing in) a file which lay open in his lap.

Some of those about the table knew each other, however vaguely, or knew of each other, but in the main they were strangers and in other circumstances might be more than a little cagey. Though their interest was a common one, still they made strange bedfellows.

The object of the meeting was that which formed this common bond amongst them, making friends or conspirators—for the moment, at least—of otherwise potential antagonists. The venue was The Chairman's country house not far from Sutton, Surrey, and the meeting was set to commence at 2
P.M
. on an early June day. No one had been late.

“Gentlemen,” The Chairman rose to his feet when all were settled down, “thank you for being here and for your punctuality. I'll try not to waste your time but get straight to the point. When this, er, get-together was planned some months ago it was not projected as an extraordinary meeting but more an overview from which to glean essential facts upon which to act—” he shrugged, “—in whichever ways were considered necessary. In short, while a problem was foreseen, it was not yet known quite what we were dealing with. And…we're still not sure.” He paused, looked around the table at each face individually, and finally continued in his dry, well-modulated voice:

“Since then continued investigation has lent the matter a deal more urgency, so that we must now consider the subject extraordinary as stated, but with a definite emphasis on
extra
! All of you, with the exception of—” he almost said “our Oriental friend,” but at the last second checked himself, merely inclining his head in the Chinaman's direction and receiving a similar acknowledgement, “—who has his own sources, were furnished with brief details from which to prepare your own points of information. The findings of your preliminary or subsequent investigations are what now bring us together to discuss—again as an overview, but with more positive action in mind—the very serious nature of the, er, possible disruption?” Again he paused.

While his opening address had been couched in terms which must surely mystify any uninformed observer, the circle of faces meeting his own showed no sign of misunderstanding or misinterpretation. Each and every one of them knew what he was talking about.

“To be more specific,” he eventually went on, “the problem quite simply is a man. A very strange, immensely talented, highly enigmatic and incredibly rich man. His name, as you are all aware, is Richard Garrison.” The assembled personages stirred. Someone cleared his throat. Another shuffled his feet.

“Yes,” The Chairman nodded, “you all know his name well enough. Individually. But perhaps as a group you are not aware of the interactions of his…influence? His influence, that is, in so many—and such diverse—spheres. Perhaps the Bank of England would like to start us off?”

As The Chairman sat down, B of E (or Finance), a stocky, middle-aged man of medium height whose small-lensed spectacles and jutting jaw gave him a sort of aggressively fishy, pikelike look, stood up. “Nine years ago,
ahem
!” he began, “Mr. Garrison was a customer of ours. A fairly important, respected customer—
ahem
! That is to say we held—er, you understand I am not at liberty to disclose actual figures—some
ahem
, millions of pounds of his money in cash, disposable assets and various investments. A lot of money for one man, yes, but a mere drop in the overall financial ocean. Recently, however…well, things have changed somewhat. In fact they have changed a great deal.” He paused to take out a handkerchief and wipe his suddenly perspiring brow.

“To illustrate my point I might say that if Mr. Garrison,
ahem
, were to withdraw or transfer his cash—his
cash
alone, you understand—then there could be problems. The ‘drop in the ocean,' you see, has become a bucketful, indeed a lake! Oh, we could cover it, of course, but even the B of E might have to call on certain reserves…” He paused again to let that sink in, though no one at the table seemed in the least surprised.

“A little over a month ago,” B of E continued, “acting on rather special instructions, I contacted friends in Switzerland to confirm their backing in the event of just such a massive withdrawal or conversion. This had become necessary when, in the space of just a few weeks, Mr. Garrison had added,
ahem
, considerably to his account. Various deposits totalled half as much again as his original holdings.

“Well, as a result of consultations in Zurich, it came to my knowledge—and of course this is in the strictest confidence—that Garrison's accounts abroad,
ahem
, make his British holdings seem a pittance by comparison!” The sweat was heavy on his brow now and he had stopped wiping it. “In fact, gentlemen, he is capable of moving millions about like you and I might move pieces in a game of chess, but far more devastatingly—
ahem
! And he never loses a piece!

“Before we sat down at this table I took the opportunity to speak to an acquaintance of mine whose interests also are financial. Perhaps he would care to enlarge upon what I have said?” He carefully sat down, his eyes steady upon those of a red-haired, very fat and florid man seated opposite.

As Financial Friend heaved wheezingly to his feet the general consensus of opinion taken from those seated about the table would have been that if overeating didn't get him, pressure of work would. And at least half of those present would not have minded that at all. Financial Friend was from the Inland Revenue, and he was not in the right job. His shirt and jacket were far too tight, and when he spoke his voice was far too highly pitched:

“Gentlemen,” he wheezed puffily, “Mr. Garrison pays his taxes—some of them, anyway. He pays an awful lot. He
would
pay a great deal more except that he has the very best accountants in the land, possibly in the world, working for him. That is no exaggeration: I suspect that he pays them more than he pays us! What he does pay us is…” he shook his head and blinked his eyes rapidly in an expression of astonishment, “is an awesome figure! I believe that someone once said of The Beatles, that if we had another ten equally successful groups, then we could abolish income tax for the masses. That was an exaggeration, of course, but if said of our Mr. Garrison it would be much more literally true! Awesome, yes, and yet—as has already been said in connection with him—a mere drop in the ocean. In Garrison's ocean, that is! And getting hold of even that drop might well be likened to squeezing blood from a stone…

“I only wish there was a way—and you may believe me when I say we are working at it—of getting hold of some of the taxes we're sure he has avoided paying. That's all…” He continued to wheeze for a few moments more, then collapsed flabbily into his seat.

The Chairman at once rose and took up the thread, redirecting the meeting's course:

“Of course, gentlemen, we must be careful not to allow ourselves to dwell too deeply on Mr. Garrison's considerable—or should we say incredible—wealth. Nor upon his attachment to it, which is only natural. Some might even say laudable. How he
got
it might be much more illuminating, for quite frankly his roots were only very austere. In fact only a little over ten years ago he was a Corporal serving in the Royal Military Police. And he might still be a member of that estimable Corps if a terrorist bomb had not blinded him in Belfast. After that…” and he went quickly on to vaguely outline something of Garrison's relationship with Thomas Schroeder, and of the benefits he had acquired upon the German industrialist's death. In all he was on his feet for some twelve minutes, after which he was glad to sit down again and hand over to MI6.

Intelligence was not at all typical, in no way a stereotype. Small, grubby, with badly bitten fingernails and unevenly cropped sandy hair, he more readily portrayed a sleepless, bankrupt greengrocer. Only when he spoke did it become apparent that his appearance was a front. His voice was clear and cutting, his sentences short and void of the usual security or police jargon. He gave the impression, too, that he would have been delighted to avoid the use of the word “alleged,” but that in Garrison's case such was quite impossible.

“Gents, the implication of this meeting is that Garrison's a crook. By crook I mean a criminal, local or international or both. Well, if he is then he's the cleverest of them all. Put it this way: he's off and running and already overtaken the hare! He's so far ahead we don't have a hope in hell of catching him. Not yet. But…if he
is
a crook then he'll make a mistake. They all do sooner or later.

“Okay, let's assume he is. First of all I'll tell you what he's
not
into—simply because we don't yet know what he
is
into! He's not into gambling, even though he owns a big slice of a London casino. That's not to say he doesn't gamble; he does, and phenomenally well. But there's no legislation against a man's good luck. He doesn't organize gambling, that's all. He's not into drugs; he doesn't use them or push them. He's not into sex—vice, that is. Oh, he occasionally fools around with a couple of high-class ladies, and he has a regular ride in the city—that is to say a mistress, a kept woman—but his heart would seem to belong to the woman he lives with, one Vicki Maler, an alleged German national. Actually, we don't quite know
what
to make of her. Her case is as weird as his, maybe weirder, but I'll explain that in a moment…

“Right, so we can strike narcotics, prostitution and gambling. He is not into the protection rackets, not into smuggling or gunrunning or fraud. Not that we can discover, anyway. He has no big deals going with any known crime syndicate, here or abroad. Which means we can also strike the Mafia, extortion, etc.” He paused and sighed.

“Garrison would appear, therefore, to be on the up and up, honest as the day is long. Well, maybe not
too
honest. Inland Revenue doesn't like him because he dodges,” he shrugged. “But if that's a crime we're a nation of criminals! So what are we left with?

“He doesn't mug old ladies, doesn't even spit on the pavement. A thief? A terrorist? That isn't even in his nature! He's an ex-cop, albeit a military cop. So, to echo our Chairman's question, where did he get his money?

“You'd think we'd have trouble finding out, eh? Well, we had a little trouble, but not a lot. In fact as soon as we stopped hunting haggis and began to accept the facts at face value it was easy.
Everything he has is legitimate!
Everything!” MI6 glanced out of the corner of his eye at Inland Revenue. “With the possible exception of what he is alleged to owe certain parties in certain quarters…

“So why has it taken us so long to discover he's legitimate?” Again he shrugged. “Easy. How can any guy with that kind of money
be
legitimate? Is it possible?

“Well, it would certainly appear to be—but not without a few mildly disturbing discrepancies, ambiguities and anomalies. Let me explain:

“I said Garrison isn't a racketeer or terrorist. That seems to be true enough—but there do appear to be tenuous links. As you already know he was blinded by a terrorist bomb. IRA, Belfast 1972. Now let me make a point here and say he is
officially blind
. I've seen the records. Army records, medical records, the lot. Permanently blind.” He stood nodding his head for a moment, knuckles on the table. “Blind, yes…but I'll come back to that.

“Two years ago the IRA were after him again. At least that's the way it looks. A London-based Irishman with old IRA connections tried to kill him. Something went wrong. The Paddy blew himself to bits instead. That sort of thing happens. But leave it for the moment.

“Then there's a much more sinister sort of organization called Nazism. Thomas Schroeder was an ex-SS Colonel. That's not strange—a great many of their top ranks were set free and lots of them still occupy positions of power. Contrary to popular belief, they weren't all villains. Schroeder, so far as we know, wasn't a villain. Or he was, but not in the usual poisonous, Jew-killing sort of way. Anyway, he wasn't taking any chances. He never was brought to trial. Him and a young SS-Scharführer called Wilhem Klinke—later Willy Koenig—knocked over a truckload of SS bullion and disappeared with it, probably into Switzerland but we don't know that for sure. We don't know that they stole the gold, but it seems a fair bet. That was towards the end, February 1945.