Fortunately, Stein had partially solved the problem by circumcising Jagger to match McCafferty, so it would be some time before the ringer could use himself without pain. But as a general rule he would be ordered to avoid sexual contacts, pleading recurrent hepatitis, or a mild case of a social disease, or any other plausible excuse.
Again Stein asked Karilian, as they stood looking down on the scarred ringer, how good their chances were of getting away with it for any length of time.
‘Can Jagger really manage it?’ he insisted. ‘Is he that bright, that adaptable? It needs a considerable actor, you know, Axel, to carry off this part.’
Karilian told him to stop worrying. ‘He’ll do it all right,’ he said grimly, ‘and he’ll do it well. I don’t know why Smith wants him on Air Force One, but it’s got to be something very, very big for an operator like him to go to all this expense and preparation. And for his man to be our man as well, unknown either to Smith or people like UNACO, who’ll be involved now that Smith is free, is a master-stroke. Moscow’s in raptures at the prospect.’
Stein grinned at Karilian’s obvious relish, but suggested that the more Jagger was exposed as McCafferty the greater his vulnerability might become. Karilian shook his huge head. ‘You’re wrong,’ he replied, ‘the more he plays the role the better he’ll get at playing it — that surely follows.’
‘I don’t know,’ Stein muttered, ‘I just don’t know. How can you be so certain?’
‘How? Simple. I know Jagger. He’s terrified of what will happen to him if he doesn’t do it. Something a hundred — a thousand — times worse than death. Can you imagine the depth of his fear, Doctor, a fate as monstrous as that which Jagger believes could be his? But how silly of me; of course you can. You, after all, are an acknowledged expert in pain and terror. For example, you would only have to threaten to “rearrange” him again, but without the anaesthetic. It would not be the first time, would it?’
Stein flushed angrily, but could not look Karilian in the eyes. ‘What about the real McCafferty?’ he muttered. ‘What happens to him?’
Karilian laughed. ‘If Smith doesn’t kill him,’ he said, ‘then of course I will.’
THREE
Basil Swann, a young man with spots, hornrimmed glasses and a string of honours from three universities, bustled into the office of Malcolm G. Philpott, Director of the United Nations Anti-Crime Organisation. The bureau was located in the UN Building in New York City, and Basil was childishly proud to work there, although he would not have dreamed of showing it. He had a predictably sound future with UNACO — provided that UNACO itself had one.
The bureau had never been — and, Philpott feared, never would be — a totally secure operation, free from political pressure and financial stress. Philpott himself had proposed the formation of the top-secret group when he was a research professor at a New England college.
His specialist subjects had been behavioural sciences, but Philpott’s deepest interest lay in the motivation and machination of the criminal mind. He had lobbied furiously to gain UN approval, and won it only because the US government of the day had funded the initial outlay. Philpott resisted the American patronage, and ever since then had fought successive Administrations to keep UNACO independent of the American, or any other, state. The bureau must, he insisted, be at the disposal of all UN member countries, from whichever power-bloc. An enlightened UN secretariat finally saw the point.
Philpott’s other problem — easily foreseen but difficult to resolve — was infiltration by the UN states who were picking up the bills. Philpott fought off patently obvious attempts at penetration by both the CIA and the KGB, but the French, Israeli, British and South African plants were sometimes trickier to uncover. Gradually, the Director established his right to a cordon sanitaire as the only effective means of guaranteeing UNACO’s neutrality and disinterestedness. He managed to cope with the naturally divided feelings of his American-born operatives, who had constantly to fend off appeals to their native patriotism, and relied heavily on his Assistant Director, Sonya Kolchinsky, a Czech national, for ammunition against Warsaw Pact interests.
Lastly, Philpott had to persuade all his clients that UNACO was not in business to play politics … that the American de-stabilisation of Chile and Jamaica, or the Soviet Union’s ruthless repression of Czechoslovakia and Poland, were not international crimes in the accepted sense; deplorable, but not actionable. UNACO’s enemies were criminals who challenged the security of nations and the stability of social order; and of those known to Philpott, Mister Smith came near the top of the list.
An unwanted complication for the UNACO Director was the depth of his personal relationship with the US President, Warren G. Wheeler, a close friend since college days. Wheeler had to be treated as impartially as any other UN head of state, but it created a difficult tight-rope for Philpott to walk. If he leaned too far in either direction, he would fall, and UNACO with him. But then, Malcolm Gregory Philpott had been trained for the risk business. And anyway, it made life interesting.
Now approaching his mid-fifties, Philpott was still a lean, trim and handsome man, though his abundant hair was iron-grey and his sharp, intelligent face was seamed, more from responsibility than age. The principal emotions showing on it as Swann walked into his office were tension and concern, rather belying Philpott’s reputation as a cunning poker player.
The large room through which Swann had passed on his way to see the Director housed the UNACO master computer, plus an electronically operated wall map of the world and a staff of multi-lingual monitors, whose continuous task was to tap listening-posts in a hundred and thirty countries.
Each time a new contact was made, a red light flickered on the wall map, indicating its point of origin. An exact see-through miniature of the map rested on Philpott’s uncluttered desk. Basil Swann approached the desk, stood in silence, coughed discreetly, and handed the Director a computer print-out. It was a brief list, no more than five lines.
USSR: Gold bullion shipment — Klvost to Moscow.
EEC: Brussels. Quarterly NATO conference.
MIDDLE EAST: Bahrain. OPEC ministers to Washington.
: Cairo. Israeli — Egyptian defence talks.
SOUTHERN HEMISPHERE: Cape Town. Diamonds in transit to Amsterdam.
Philpott quickly scanned the entries and accompanying estimate of dates, and then read it over, more slowly. ‘Is this everything?’ he inquired.
‘It is a complete catalogue of the likeliest events within the next three months in which the computer considers our friend might conceivably display a criminal interest,’ Swann replied ponderously.
‘Which friend?’ called a voice from the doorway, ‘and furthermore, what do you mean by bleeping me at the hairdresser’s? You know how sensitive Pepito is. It’d better be important.’
‘It is, Sonya,’ Philpott answered as his Assistant Director, newly and radiantly coiffured, sailed into the room, and sank into a chair proffered by Swann. Sonya Kolchinsky was sumptuously fashioned and of above-average height, with a round face, soft grey eyes and short brown hair, elegantly moulded to her shapely head. She was a good ten years younger than Philpott, but saw no reason to permit minor considerations like age difference or their positions in UNACO to interfere with the affair they had both conducted, guiltlessly and joyfully, ever since she had become part of UNACO and of Philpott’s life.