The Dragon and the Needle (7 page)

‘What do you mean?’

‘Listen to me, please. Approached by people here,’ he repeated, ‘hoping that you can assist them …’

Again she interrupted him with, ‘Assist them in what way? For God’s sake stop talking like a spy!’

‘Assist them.’ He was unmoved by her impatience, speaking now with a flat, even, hard tone of voice. ‘To investigate the
causes of the mysterious deaths occurring at this time to help them solve the ENDS problem.’

‘What could I possibly do to help them?’

‘You alone will know that, and you owe much to China, do you not?’

This time fear struck her to the depths of her body, the kind that brings on a feeling of nausea. It reminded her vividly of questioning by the Beijing police.

‘What are you trying to say?’ She looked at Ah-Ming. Did they think they could use her for something, some plan, some plot? Events in her recent past suddenly began to make sense. It was like a jigsaw puzzle; she could at least see where some of the pieces fitted into the pattern. But one thing was certain: she could brush aside his innuendoes about her husband’s death – he was dead, murdered by a drug addict.

‘I don’t consider that I have a debt, as you put it, to China and …’

‘I did not put it that way,’ he interrupted. ‘I said you owe much to China!’

‘That’s the same thing!’

‘No. And what about your husband?’ Ah-Ming watched her with an expression of interest.

She returned it with one of disgust and replied, ‘I know your set-up. For some reason or other you think I can be of use to you, don’t you? I suppose that’s what’s behind this facade of an evening?’

‘I don’t understand you,’ Ah-Ming replied.

‘I think you do,’ Eleanor persisted.

He seemed to reflect for a moment. Then he shrugged and said, ‘It’s up to you. But listen carefully.’ Ah-Ming leant forward to give emphasis to his words. ‘Your husband is alive and well, very much alive, and working in China. Otherwise …’

As he continued to speak, she shut herself off from his voice. She began desperately to plan her next move. She
thought she might suddenly get up and run away. Then as quickly, fear that he might be telling the truth about her husband nagged at her brain, holding her back from fleeing. She heard the words he whispered yet again, ‘Carry Tiger to Mountain’. Those words to her meant the good and the positive sides of China. He was mixing that good with the bad, with the wicked lie about Chen.

She stared back at him. He knew from her expression that CTTM, that the words ‘Carry Tiger to Mountain’, had had their effect. He could tell that she was afraid, but boldly fighting back the fear. He admired her. But she would have to agree – there was no escape!

As he saw her to a taxi, he became more talkative about mundane things: the weather, London in late autumn. He was even jaunty in his walk, so confident did he feel. It was like the start of a war – whatever happened, life for her would never be the same again.

It was raining hard next morning in London. Outside the house of Lord Helman, in Cadogan Square, the water ran down the street in a torrent. The peer’s son, the Honourable John Selwyn, looked out at the dismal scene from his bedroom window. He longed to be back in Beijing where the weather last week had been glorious. His father had sent him to China to finalise a contract, set to supply the Chinese with the latest detail of electronic technology. The family business had established a thriving market for themselves in China; the building of a new factory in their own country was now promised by the Helman Group.

A minute or so later, he had forgotten the grey damp scene outside, as he lay wallowing in a bubble bath. It was a pleasant reminder of a big advantage in living in London; the bathroom in his hotel in Beijing had been basic in terms of comfort. The food was not to his liking either: he found
it boring and characterless, like the hotels. He was used to the expensive restaurants of London. He smiled as he remembered the hot water which was only switched on for certain periods each day.

He had also missed Western cigarettes, until he found they were available in the Friendship stores. He lit a cigarette as he lay relaxing in his bath, looking forward to his meeting later in the morning at his father’s main boardroom in the City. They would be delighted with his progress and his report on the Beijing visit. He smiled again as he thought of the increase in salary Dad had promised if all went well. Not that £180,000 a year was peanuts, but damn it all, he was already 26 years old, and worth at least £200,000!

As he turned the hot tap with his toes, he began to reflect with a deal of satisfaction on the future. One day he would be head of his father’s business. Indeed, that day might come sooner than many believed possible: Dad wanted to retire before he was 55.

As he put his foot back in the bath water, his body was struck by a sudden severe spasm. His head slipped under the water. His face became contorted, grotesque in agony as he resurfaced, his mouth gushing out the water that he had gulped. His valet discovered his body in the bath ten minutes later.

The death of Lord Helman’s son was uppermost in Mike Clifford’s mind as he entered Eleanor Johnson’s reception room. But that train of thought vanished as he heard the secretary, Julie, explain the strange, disturbing news. Julie, intelligent and pretty, reminded him of a cousin, who was always cheerful. But at this moment Julie was far from cheerful. She was obviously worried.

‘I’m terribly sorry, Dr Clifford,’ she said, ‘but Dr Johnson telephoned to say that she can’t come in this morning. I tried to catch you but you had left.’

‘What’s the problem?’

‘She said that she wants to see you very much indeed, but she’s unavoidably tied up. It’s most unlike her. I’ve cancelled all her appointments for this morning.’

‘Unavoidably tied up?’ Mike said, suddenly angry. ‘I don’t have time to waste! Is it a patient of hers?’

‘I’ve no idea, Doctor.’

‘Has she left me a message?’ snapped Mike.

‘Yes. She said she would telephone here on the dot of ten.’

He looked at his watch. Three minutes to go. He could give her those three minutes, no more. Julie beckoned him to a chair. He dismissed the invitation to sit down with a brusque wave of his hand. He began to wonder if Dorman had been on the wrong track. It was possible Eleanor had a good reason.

He suddenly found himself liking the name ‘Eleanor’. Then he wondered if she had a boyfriend. Perhaps there was somebody else. One thing puzzled him; she was too attractive to be on her own. But what did he really know about her? She had told him briefly about the death of her husband in New York, but nothing else. But why should she tell him? He shrugged. Then a faint smile appeared on his face. There he was, in the middle of a worldwide drama of enormous dimensions, worrying about a possible relationship with a woman.

‘Can I get you a coffee?’ Julie asked.

‘No, thanks.’ Then the telephone rang and he heard Eleanor’s voice, the voice with that fascinating mixture of American English. But he did not like the concern he heard in her voice.

‘Dr Clifford! I’m so sorry. Can you come round to my flat? I’ve got to see you.’

While listening to Eleanor, he noticed that Julie was staring at him intently. Should he be guarded in his reply? God! he thought, I’m already acting the complicated spy. In medical
research, he had learnt to keep an open mind, listen to everything, respect others’ opinions and never resort to deviousness.

‘I suppose I can,’ he said, ‘but I have a busy schedule.’

‘I’m not far away. Julie will tell you where to come. Will you? Please come!’

‘Okay.’

Her voice was full of relief. ‘Thank you so much! And tell Julie I’ll contact her later.’

Mike left her consulting office quickly. He hurried into Harley Street, hoping for a taxi. It was impossible to find an empty one. He remembered that later in the day, the Ministry were to allocate a car and driver to him. As he cursed the slowness of civil servants, he realised how close he was to Brook Street and decided to walk. A few minutes later he was crossing Oxford Street and entering the top of New Bond Street.

He began to think again about the death of John Selwyn, Lord Helman’s son. By the time he got back to Park Crescent the autopsy report would be waiting for him. Somehow, somewhere, soon, the answer would be found. This latest death, coupled with that of the American President’s daughter would … As his thought processes changed he slowed down his pace. How did he know that John Selwyn was connected with the death syndrome? And if he was, who was going to be next? Supposing it was all related to pollution of some kind?

As he turned off New Bond Street into Brook Street, a young woman was walking towards him, a small child clutching the hem of her dress. He smiled at them. They both looked so fit and healthy and from the clothes they wore, very rich. Probably part of the Bond Street set. The lucky ones, who were able to afford the best medical treatment. But these were the people most hit by the wave of sudden deaths.

As he rang the bell of Eleanor’s flat, he had no illusions
about himself, of the enormity of the task that faced him. Concern with death could turn us all into a race of hypochondriacs, but it looked more and more like a planned phenomenon, with no holds barred. A world totally divorced from his, a world of intrigue and hate, instead of dedication to the care of people, to the prevention of death and suffering, where everything should be done to prolong life, not shorten it. Prevention, as well as cure – Eleanor’s philosophy – whether she could be of help or not. At this moment he needed to see her. He heard her voice on the entry phone.

The front windows of Eleanor’s flat overlooked that mecca of hotels, Claridges. Once, when she was a child, she had been taken there for a fortnight’s holiday by a rich (very rich) American uncle and aunt. They had purchased the flat she now owned and bequeathed it to her. It had been tempting to sell it, but she had held back, a decision she had never regretted. As she showed Mike the view across the street, she briefly explained to him how she had come to own it.

He was not interested in ownerships of flats, he was more concerned with her nervous tension.

There was a large sofa in front of a huge gas log fireplace. They sat down together, side by side.

‘What’s the matter? What’s happened?’ he asked. ‘More importantly, what’s wrong with you?’

‘Wrong with me?’

‘Yes.’

She smiled nervously and began, ‘Since meeting you, I’ve been catching up on the news. I’d no idea of the extent of this sudden death syndrome, ENDS, as they all seem to call it.’

‘I’m glad of that. But I don’t like the word the media have coined to describe it.’

‘Why not?’

‘As you know, medically, the word “syndrome” means the concurrence of symptoms in disease, a set of such symptoms.’

‘So?’

‘So, these deaths are all from natural causes.’

‘I know very little about them.’

He looked at her very intently for a moment and asked, ‘Then it came as a surprise when Professor Dorman contacted you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why do you think he wanted to see you?’

‘I’ve no idea. I suppose he thought I might be of help.’

He found his hands reaching out for hers. She was happy as he enfolded them in his. There was a very long silence as they looked into each other’s eyes.

Suddenly she began to look more worried than ever. He gently squeezed her hands and said, ‘Yes, he did think you might be of help. But let’s get our priorities in some sort of order. I don’t like your worry, your concern. It’s written all over your face.’

‘I’ll sort myself out,’ she said gently. ‘It’s just that so much has happened in the past few days.’

He released her hands and said, ‘You must be terribly tired, after the late-night session with your patient.’ She nodded and he continued, ‘How about a coffee?’

The question relaxed them both. As he followed her into the kitchen, he wondered if it was fair to involve her. What could she do? A doctor of Oriental alternative medicine? There was no doubt about the effectiveness of her treatments, her diagnoses, her preventative skills. She was helping hundreds of patients. The file he had read on her in Professor Dorman’s office was full of praise in those directions. But what could she really do to help? Would it not be better to leave her alone, to let her carry on the work in which she was so deeply involved? Yet … why were her skills and talents so successful? He wanted to know more about them.

He went over to the kitchen window that looked out onto Davies Street. On the window ledge there was a large potted plant almost obscuring the view below. Almost, but not quite. Through the leaves Mike could see the building opposite. The words ‘The Grosvenor Estate’ were embossed on a wide brass plate. His eyes wandered down the steps in front of the sign. Standing beside them on the pavement was a tall man. He was looking towards Eleanor’s flat. Was that his bodyguard? If he was, who was watching the Brook Street entrance? It would be impossible to see around the right-hand angle of the junction. Did he have two of them now? God! If so, he was becoming important. He smiled inwardly at the thought, but it also concentrated his mind back on to Eleanor. Perhaps the tall man in Davies Street was watching her. Did she need protection as well? He heard the percolator bubbling and he turned around to find her looking at him.

‘What are you looking at outside?’ she asked.

He did not answer at once, remembering her reaction to his mention of his bodyguard. Then he said, ‘Please don’t get upset. There’s a man outside just standing still and smoking. Perhaps he’s my bodyguard.’

‘Don’t worry,’ she smiled. ‘But don’t you know if he is?’

‘I was told they would be very discreet.’ He smiled and said, ‘Well, prudent. He’s certainly standing out like a sore thumb to me.’

Her emotions were mixed: she felt relieved to know Mike was with her, yet uncertain where it would lead, or how much she should tell him. ‘Let’s sit at the table in here, shall we?’ she said.

They sat down and he asked, ‘Are you going to tell me what’s happened to you in the past few days? What’s really happened.’