The Dragon and the Needle (2 page)

The car began to edge forward into the Haymarket and suddenly a long break appeared on the left-hand side, enabling them to get as far as the old Theatre Royal, near the junction with Pall Mall. But again they were stopped by the red traffic lights. Dorman closed his briefcase, unable to read his report, unable to concentrate, becoming edgy once more.

The two men sat silently, moodily, side by side, staring ahead. Dorman decided to call the Minister. As he reached for the car telephone, he heard a rapid tapping on the side of the car. He looked in the direction of the sound and saw a man’s face peering into the car window on his driver’s side. The man began tapping on the car window and at the same time gestured towards the traffic lights. They had just changed to green and Dorman’s driver had already engaged gear to move off.

‘Hadn’t you better see what’s on that man’s mind?’ Dorman said quickly.

The sound of breaking glass filled the small car and a rush of cold air and rain followed the ear-splitting noise. The figure of a narrow-shouldered man wearing a dark trilby loomed at the car window, his face now squashed and unrecognisable through the stocking that he had pulled over it from under his hat. In his hand was a gun. The long barrel of its silencer was pressed against the driver’s head. The driver shouted in terror and reached for the red alarm button as the gunman pulled the trigger for the first time. The driver’s right forefinger slid away from the button before his body fell across Dorman’s lap. Blood was pouring from his neck over the professor’s legs. His eyes appealed with a look of shock, and his voice
uttered from somewhere at the back of his throat, ‘Have mercy… !’

Now the gunman pulled the trigger five times in three seconds; the bullets smashed into Dorman’s head, neck, chest, stomach and groin. An explosion of blood mingled with the glittering dashboard lights. The driver’s feet had jammed onto the accelerator and clutch pedals. The engine was roaring, screaming at 7000 revolutions a minute. In a few more seconds the assassin had disappeared into the maze and chaos of the rush-hour traffic, clutching Dorman’s briefcase.

Later, much later, a witness in a car behind claimed that she saw the assassin rush towards Pall Mall; another said he saw him slip away into the nearby Suffolk Place. But no one was sure and the weather made any recognition impossible.

A large crowd gathered at the scene of the murders and it was some time before the police and plain-clothes SAS were able to restore a degree of order in the Haymarket. The first policeman to arrive on the scene had run up from the direction of the junction leading round into Trafalgar Square. He was a young man, and he had already witnessed many horrific deaths. Even so, it took all his willpower not to turn away from what he saw when he peered into the car’s smashed interior.

From somewhere deep inside himself, his discipline and training held firm. He controlled his fear and dismay. He stood back from the car, reported quickly to his headquarters on his transmitter and shouted instructions to the gathering crowd. The public rallied to his commands. Within a few minutes was heard the distant wailing of sirens.

Norman Hall, the Minister of Health, sat at his desk with the telephone receiver held to his ear. His face was grim and ashen white. With fumbling, nervous hands, he was finding it difficult to hold the receiver steady and write on his scribbling pad. He was glad when the caller finished, but as
he replaced the receiver, the shock of the news clawed at his mind. He thought for a moment that he must be dreaming. It couldn’t have happened! Dorman was not only one of the finest medical brains in the country, he was also a much beloved and dedicated man. There would be hell to pay at the next Cabinet meeting. Hall had been responsible for Dorman’s appointment as head of the ENDS Global Policy Committee. It was a government loss. His next thought was about his own loss. He winced, for he had only managed to scrape home at the last election by four votes. Then he thought, I can’t be blamed. I’m not responsible for Dorman’s death. And what can I say to the House?

He glanced at his notepad and read some of the words he had written in a shaky hand: ‘no chance … instant … briefcase gone … wife … had Dorman new evidence?’ How the hell would he know if Dorman had new evidence?

He pressed a button on his desk and waited tensely. His Permanent Secretary, Sir Richard Morris, was on his way to see him. There was a rapid knock on his door and a junior secretary entered. The Minister looked up at her and said, ‘Show Sir Richard straight in when he arrives.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The young girl liked her boss but didn’t like the way he looked at this moment. ‘And can I get you a drink?’ she added, concern in her voice.

‘That’s a good idea. Yes, please. The usual.’

She went over to the drinks cabinet and poured out a stiff Scotch and soda. As he took it from her he said, ‘Thank you. You’ve heard the news, of course?’

‘Yes, sir. It’s terrible. Such a super man.’

‘Yes, he was.’

‘Can I get you anything else?’

‘No, thanks, that’s fine.’

He began to pull himself together after she had gone. He wondered what effect Dorman’s death would have on the rest of the Cabinet. The PM would be devastated! A murder had
taken place on a London street and that alone was bad enough, after all the efforts to contain terrorism; efforts that had begun to show positive results. But for the murdered man to be the one so closely involved with the attempt to unravel ENDS, that was the sort of disaster that could bring down the government!

Five minutes later, Sir Richard Morris was walking towards the Minister’s desk. They shook hands as the civil servant said fiercely, ‘It’s a hideous crime! You know all the facts, Minister?’

‘Yes. Come, sit down. Tell me what the Foreign Office and for that matter, the Home Office, are doing about it.’

‘The usual. All airports and seaports have been alerted, though there isn’t much to go on.’

‘Any idea what was in Dorman’s briefcase?’

‘Apparently nothing of any worth.’

‘How do you know?’

‘His secretary packed his papers herself. There was nothing private, no secret correspondence in it, according to her.’

‘Thank God for that.’ The Minister paused and went on, ‘Though who knows? He might have added to it himself.’

‘Possibly.’

‘Does anyone know what was in his mind … in terms of a new approach?’

‘No, though it’s established that one of his colleagues, Dr Mike Clifford, has been working very closely with him.’

‘Where’s he?’

‘He’s at Sussex University today. He’s been contacted and is on his way back to London. We hope he will continue Dorman’s work.’

‘Anything else?’

‘In my judgement, Minister, it has been a brilliantly coordinated assassination. Whether or not it signals a change in direction remains to be seen.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, perhaps the FO or the Home Office will come up with something. But it could be that the mystery deaths are to be replaced by more direct methods.’

‘You mean open terrorism again?’

‘Right.’

‘That’s not very likely, Sir Richard. As long as they, whoever “they” are, can create the impression of natural death, there’s not much point in using violent and unsubtle forms of murder, is there?’

‘No, I suppose not. But why violently murder someone like Dorman?’

‘Because, Sir Richard, he reckoned he’d stumbled on to something of great importance. He was on his way to tell me about it.’

‘I see. And “they” found out that Dorman was on to something?’

‘Yes.’

‘But how did “they” find that out?’

‘That’s a good question. But that’s not our department, is it?’

‘No. But meanwhile we’ve got our own briefs, haven’t we, direct from the PM. I was wondering if …’

The Minister interrupted, ‘You’re not concerned with wondering, Sir Richard. As you said, we have our own briefs and we’ll stick to them.’

The antipathy between civil servant and professional politician was surfacing, as it often does, and neither side was willing to give an inch.

‘I must object, Minister! I think the time has come to rethink the whole problem.’ The senior civil servant opened his briefcase, brought out a folder, took out a sheet of paper and handed it to the Minister, saying, ‘At long last there seems to be some kind of pattern, a sort of consistent occurrence. Your own department and the FO computers have thrown up an interesting fact.’

‘Computers,’ the Minister cut in, ‘need people to feed them, don’t they?’

‘Yes, Minister, I know what you’re getting at. We’ve been doubly careful about that; we checked on everyone and everything.’ He smiled smoothly, savouring his next remark. ‘We even checked you out.’

The Minister glared, making no comment.

‘We’ve checked with Washington, Minister, and …’

‘And?’

‘We found that every death has, in some way or other, been linked with the Orient.’

‘The Orient?’

‘Yes. The computers won’t give us anything definite, but they do come up with that area of the world consistently, too consistently to be coincidental.’

The Health Minister now showed his impatience and spoke quickly, curtly, ‘Sir Richard, this kind of information can only lead to more confusion. Dorman, our top medical man, has been murdered! What are you suggesting? A Far Eastern country is responsible?’

‘I’m not suggesting it’s necessarily a definite link with Dorman’s death, though there might be a link somewhere. I’m merely reporting what we’re finding at this moment in time.’

‘Are you saying there’s a definite link between Dorman’s murder and ENDS?’

‘I’m not saying that exactly, Minister, but there might be.’

‘You’re confusing me, Sir Richard. If there is a definite link, what is it?’

‘Well, for instance, we all know that many acupuncture centres have been set up all over the world, and more and more people are having treatment.’ Sir Richard paused. ‘Successfully.’

‘So?’

‘So, Minister, the treatment originated in China, the Far East.’

Hall frowned, his face showing disbelief. ‘Are you suggesting that something is being done in the acupuncture centres to kill VIPs?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘But surely if that was happening, it would show on health profiles, on tests?’

‘True.’

‘And you seem to forget, the deaths are being registered as from natural causes.’

‘Yes, it’s very puzzling.’

‘And,’ Hall went on, ‘Dorman was murdered outright.’

The telephone rang on Hall’s desk. He grabbed at it. His face grew stern, worried. By the time he had replaced the receiver, Sir Richard guessed there was more bad news. He said, ‘What’s happened?’

‘Besides Professor Dorman,’ Hall said slowly, ‘we had that terrible shock yesterday with the death of our Consul in Marseille. Now reports are coming in of the death of the American President’s daughter. She was twenty-eight. It’s from natural causes.’

Mike Clifford turned off his car radio and concentrated on the road ahead, the beginning of the Brighton to London motorway. At first he had disbelieved the news. Then Scotland Yard contacted him direct at Sussex University. He was told to return immediately. After the initial disbelief and utter shock, he became angry, and that anger was still deep inside him.

‘Bastards!’ He shouted out the word at the top of his voice, following up with other words that helped to relieve his feelings towards the killer and anything or anyone involved with the murderer.

Mike Clifford was normally the kind of man who had iron control over his emotions. Tall, fair, good-looking, he was 38
years of age. He was the only son of a Yorkshire miner; his parents had died many years ago. He had managed to escape a life in the industrial north by studying medicine. He had been a promising student, and by the end of his degree course, that promise had been fulfilled. Then, his research work at the University of Sussex had brought him to the notice of Professor Dorman.

Within a short time of joining him, Mike Clifford had been swept into the professor’s world. He was happy to have the opportunity of working with Dorman and of becoming directly involved with ENDS. In no way was it reaching the rapid spread made by AIDS, but ‘death by natural causes’ made ENDS uniquely alarming. As the months passed, his respect for Dorman grew. He admired and learnt a great deal from the professor, and was grateful that Dorman had chosen him as his assistant. He was anxious to help him in any way he could. He had become fully versed in the ENDS problems, and although fascinated, he was also very concerned.

Professor Dorman had no children, and he and Mike were rapidly developing a kind of father–son relationship. Mike tried to follow up on every idea of the professor’s, and even carried his ideas a stage further. Recently he had become involved in Dorman’s scrutiny of acupuncture and the complicated diagnostic pulse law of the therapy. He wanted to understand why and how the human body responded to acupuncture, although he found it difficult to regard any form of Oriental medicine as a serious science. But Dorman wanted to know more about the acupuncture points, and told Mike that they must both keep open minds about the therapy. He wanted them both to meet Eleanor Johnson, an American doctor practising acupuncture in London. Mike’s respect for Dorman made him anxious to look into anything Dorman might suggest.

But what was going to happen now? Mike had almost reached the outskirts of London. London without Dorman
was unthinkable! God, how he would miss him! A deep sadness settled on the young doctor, yet he knew that the professor wouldn’t want that emotion spent on himself, especially in the present crisis. Far better to go on with his work.

He sat back in the driving seat and this time said aloud, through clenched teeth, ‘My God! I’ll work on! And I’ll help find the bastards who killed him!’

The blaring horn and flashing lights of a car behind brought Clifford promptly back to the present and only just in time. He had wandered from the centre lane into the fast lane. He glanced at his speedometer, saw it was registering 90 miles an hour, and immediately pulled his steering-wheel to the left. The car behind had been about to overtake him! As he steadied his steering-wheel, holding to the centre lane, the car behind swept past, flashing its lights, the driver angrily sounding the horn. Clifford eased up on his accelerator and cruised at 50 miles an hour. Better to concentrate on the road for a while; though he couldn’t get Dorman out of his thoughts.