On his arrival at the Defence Ministry late that afternoon Shaw reported to the inner office of the Chief of Special Services, Defence Security Staff. Latymer — round, blunt, pugnacious, face disfigured into expressionlessness by skin grafts that were the legacy of a bomb attack on his person years before — looked at him hard but approvingly across the polished leather expanse of his desk and grunted, “Ha — didn’t waste much time — good! You said on the phone you were fit. Are you?” The green eyes, cold beside the high bridge of an autocratic nose, examined Shaw.
“Yes, sir.”
“From the reports I’ve had I believe you, but we’ll let the doctors give the final decision. I shouldn’t worry — I know you’ve spent most of your time surfing. Wise choice.” Latymer reached across to the intercom on his desk and pressed a switch. Peremptorily he said, “Send in Mr Fellowes.” The switch clicked back and he turned to Shaw. “Fellowes is a civil servant, works officially for the Home Office, but there’s a strong smell of the Special Branch about him, which is all I’m prepared to say even to you. He wants to talk to you about dead bodies.”
Shaw grimaced. “Dead bodies — where, sir?”
“Fellowes’ll tell you himself presently.”
Ten seconds later Latymer’s confidential secretary brought the Home Office man in. Fellowes was short, stout, fiftyish and completely bald, with thick-lensed glasses and a five-o’clock-shadowed jaw; the flesh hung in heavy folds, deeply lined from nose to mouth. He had a hanging-judge appearance about his eyes.
Those eyes, ice-cold, met Shaw’s as Latymer introduced him.
Fellowes sat, crossing his legs and resting his elbows on the arms of his chair; his extended fingers tapped together over his stomach, parson-wise. He looked expectantly at Latymer, who said, “I’m leaving this to you, Mr Fellowes.” Latymer shot his cuff back, glared at his wrist-watch, and went on, “I’ve an appointment with the Minister in thirty-six minutes precisely, so I’d be obliged if you’d go straight in at the deep end.”
“Most certainly.” Fellowes closed his eyes for a moment, cleared his throat, then slewed himself towards Shaw. “It’s a long story,” he said. His voice was flat, toneless. “I shall be as brief as possible, however, and I shall start by telling you why it is I have come to your people about this particular problem, which on the face of it isn’t specifically a Defence Ministry pigeon at all. However, it has to do with a certain report that you yourself submitted… after the completion of a mission in Moscow some time ago.” The cold eyes flickered over Shaw, “You will, no doubt, recall that you were… ah… pressed into Soviet service temporarily by a certain Colonel Andreyev of the K.G.B.?”
Shaw caught Latymer’s eye. “I remember well enough,” he said.
Fellowes inclined his head. “Of course. Now — this man Andreyev, according to your report, Commander, mentioned to you the existence of a route for the withdrawal to Soviet territory of dead bodies.” He was looking directly at Shaw now. “Am I correct?”
“Absolutely correct,” Shaw confirmed. “But I’m sorry to say that was all he told me — it was just a casual reference in passing and he never went into any detail.”
“Yes, indeed. You made that very point in your report. I have been studying it.” Fellowes removed his glasses and polished them. “You have nothing to add verbally, I take it?”
Before Shaw could answer Latymer said, “Reports from my agents are always fully comprehensive, Mr Fellowes.”
“Quite so — yes.” The glasses went on again; behind them, the eyes blinked. “But, you know, there’s often—”
“Fully comprehensive, Mr Fellowes.”
Shaw grinned inwardly at the snap in Latymer’s voice. He said, “I’ve nothing whatever to add. It’s all in the report. Andreyev didn’t drop any hints, clues or what-have-you. Sorry, but there it is.”
“I see.” Fellowes gave several ponderous nods. “In that case, as indeed I must admit I suspected, I can tell you more than you can tell me.” He paused, closing his eyes again momentarily. “To begin with, I can confirm the factual existence of what you reported. It is known as the Dead Line.” He added, “It is only very recently that we have been in a position to give this confirmation, although we were alerted by your report when it was made available for circulation on the customary restricted distribution list. You, of course, know in a general sense what the Dead Line has been used for — that is, the withdrawal to Soviet territory of persons who have been killed for political reasons in this country. We believe — we don’t know for certain — that it may have been used in the past as a route for the withdrawal mainly of the bodies of Russian scientists and others who have defected to the West and have subsequently disappeared from this country.” He closed his eyes once more. “I quote Demiskov, Kozilpin, Volshinsky as examples of such men who have disappeared without trace in recent years — you’ll recall the cases, no doubt. They could have been killed over here by Russian agents and they may have travelled the Dead Line into Russia. If you were to ask me what my guess is as to why Russia should want dead bodies, I would say that they wished to teach a lesson to persons who might have copied these men’s examples. You can imagine for yourself what the impact would be on the dead man’s colleagues, as well as on his family, when they were confronted with the body, as I would suggest they may have been — indeed, your own report indicated that the family would be shown the body. And it could in certain circumstances be easier to withdraw a dead body than to attempt to kidnap a comparatively well-known scientist, say, and get him out of the country alive — we can of course take it for granted they would have got all they needed from him in the way of information before killing him.”
Shaw asked, “Do you know the details of the route?”
Regretfully, the Home Office man shook his head. “No. We work on the assumption that whatever the route may be, it’s changed after each single use is made of it — and I would imagine it is not in frequent use anyway. Hence it’s extremely difficult to find out anything concrete about it.” He gave Shaw a long, calculating stare. “It is, of course, a serious enough thing that defected Eastern scientists may have been killed with impunity in this country, but matters have, we believe, become even more serious. You see, certain other factors have emerged. We have reason now to think that British subjects are being put into the pipeline.”
“British subjects?”
Fellowes nodded. “We believe the Dead Line has been used, is being used, and could continue to be used, for the disappearance of certain categories of Britons — but with one difference in their cases, and that is — they’re not being taken to Russia. They’re going into Red China.” He paused, and a slight smile hovered over his lips. “Interested, Commander Shaw?”
Shaw said quietly, “I could be, if you’ll tell me more.”
“Indeed I shall.” Fellowes sat forward, staring into Shaw’s eyes and emphasizing his points by tapping his outstretched fingers together. “Here are the facts. Four fairly prominent men and one woman have, in the last few weeks, suffered a fate similar to those defected Russian scientists — similar, that is to say, in so far as they are known to have disappeared without trace. Just vanished. We haven’t had a lead, we haven’t had a smell of a lead — until now, and I shall come to that in a moment. Of these five people, two men and the woman were Members of Parliament. I dare say you’ll know to whom I’m referring?”
Shaw whistled. “Too right I do! There was a hell of a stink in the press.”
“Exactly,” Fellowes agreed with a somewhat rueful look. He went on, “Another man was a steelworker prominent in so far he was a leading light locally in the British Union of Fascists, and the fifth was quite a big noise, again locally, in the North of England. He was a manufacturer who had been a town councillor for a good many years. And all those men, Commander — here’s the interesting thing — had one very important binding link.”