I GUESS IT WASN’T UNTIL we reached the level above that I really grasped the size and importance of the operation we were bucking. Unlike the primitive arrangements below, the main level was fixed up to provide perfect living, working and training quarters for a good-sized group. There was a kitchen, a dining-room and a recreation hall with stereo, piano, table tennis and pool tables, a fully equipped gymnasium, sauna, and a shooting gallery. We glimpsed all this on our way to the interrogation rooms. And at that we only saw part of the place. There was plenty we never saw: corridors and closed doors stretched out in all directions. Storage, communication rooms, offices, I imagined.
This impressive facility was strangely empty. It seemed to await a battalion of men to make full use of it. Apart from Paul and the two men with us, we spotted only four others. They were playing pool and didn’t bother to look up as we passed. The place definitely had an unlived-in feeling.
We were led to the end of one of the long passages and through a new, solid wooden door. No flimsy plywood. The inside gave me another surprise. Instead of a bare torture cell as I had half-expected, it was a well-furnished office with desk, comfortable chairs, shelves with books, one locked file cabinet and a nice portable bar. Very civilized. Only the rough ceiling, over-bright lights, and its occupants gave the room away. As we entered, a scream of pain and panic entered with us. It came from an adjoining room. The cozy little office with its civilized decor was an antechamber to hell.
I heard Carol’s intake of breath and even one of our captors flinched, making a funny clucking noise deep in his throat. He too had been caught off-guard at the sound of the single scream. There was no other. Dean, for it was Dean, no question, had either passed out or had a gag slapped over his mouth.
It took me a second to realize that the scene had been carefully stage-managed for our benefit. It was clear from the smiling faces of the two men in the room. I looked them over carefully as I sat down on one of the chairs facing the desk. On my left was a short, dark man with deep-set eyes and brows meeting across his forehead. He looked young and very strong. I looked at his hands, thumbs hooked with apparent carelessness into his belt. A familiar gun butt poked out behind his left arm. It was Harry’s .22 calibre killer gun. He removed one hand from his belt, revealing a bandaid on the thumb, and waved it at me. He was grinning.
“Bitch bites,” he said happily. We had met previously in the VW at the Kaslo campground.
“True,” I said and turned my attention to the second man, who sat behind the desk in front of me. It had to be Huber. I realized Carol had not told me anything about him except that Shoreman was scared of him.
Huber waved Paul and his two henchmen out of the room. “Now,” he said in perfect, unaccented English. “Now, we can proceed. I am sorry for the unsavory sound effects. Dean is learning how to obey orders. Something you, Carol, will have to learn too. I just hope it’s not too late.”
The man called Huber looked to be in his forties. Large powerful body, encased in a conservative, expensive ‘country’ suit of brown tweed, with shining brogues on the feet and a paisley ascot at the throat. His elegantly graying, closely barbered hair fitted his well-shaped head perfectly. His face was full, smooth, with just a hint of tan. He had sharp blue eyes and a large, mobile mouth. Huber was a large, large man. He sat in a solid executive swivel chair and looked at Carol and me without a trace of emotion.
“Yes, Carol will have to be chastised, of course. We haven’t got time for any extensive period of reeducation but some discipline is indicated. I am sure Dean will be glad to undertake this task, as soon as he feels a little better himself. Under Emil’s instruction, naturally.” He nodded at the dark man. “I hope that this unpleasant episode will be over in short order. You and Dean are valuable members of this organization but you mustn’t count on my indulgence in the future. Revolutionary cadres must be perfectly disciplined. Always. Do you understand, Carol?” He fixed his eyes on her, waiting for a reply. I held my breath without looking at her.
Her whispered “yes” gave me cold shivers. Huber spoke again immediately.
“Good. That’s settled then. You will go with Emil now. Tell him everything you know, everything you heard, everything you suspect, everything that’s happened to you in the last 24 hours. I am especially interested in your brief sojourn with Ronald Walters. I want to know more about those three Americans. And of course anything and everything about Helen Keremos here. Clear?”
Again a soft “yes” from Carol. Huber motioned to Emil, who walked up to Carol and without any warning slapped her face. Once, then again on the other side as her head snapped round.
“Take her out.”
Carol got up and left the room, closely followed by a smiling Emil.
Huber and I were alone.
“Would you care for a drink?” he said courteously.
Why didn’t I throw something at him? Why didn’t I fight, even against these hopeless odds? Why hadn’t I defended Carol against her pain and humiliation? Why hadn’t both of us died right there and then to preserve our self respect if nothing else?
Retorical questions. We had to get this creep. To do that we had to stay alive. It was no cop-out. There was no choice under the circumstances, but to play his game and beat him at it. I accepted a drink and waited.
Across the desk blue eyes contemplated me keenly. I was being evaluated. Perfectly manicured fingertips, trimmed cuticles revealing white half-moons on beautifully shined nails, played with a balloon cognac snifter.
“I suppose you are wondering why you are still alive,” he said conversationally.
“I must fit into your plans somewhere, I guess,” I replied in the same tone.
“Exactly. You can be very useful if you can be persuaded to cooperate.”
“Persuaded?”
“Exactly. I will have to convince you that it is in your best interest to do what I say. Now, how can I do that most effectively?” He paused as if really expecting an answer.
“Fear, threats are very persuasive. Hostages are useful as a method of getting your own way. Of course, that’s defining ‘best interest’ very narrowly.”
Huber smiled at me like a schoolmaster at a bright student. “Very good,” he nodded. “As long as there is direct fear of death or mutilation, ‘best interest’ is simply staying alive. However, that doesn’t allow the controlling party very much situational flexibility.” He stopped again, waiting. I mulled over the apparent direction of his words. His intent was becoming a little clearer but we were a long way from anything definite.
“The issue is options in a situation of limited choice. I must be convinced that doing what you want, even without a gun at my head, is my best, my only option. In other words, that every other possible option will produce even worse consequences.”
“Very, very good. That’s rational thinking. And what this situation calls for is a rational being. I see that my initial analysis was correct. You are just the person for what I have in mind.”
“You mean if I appeared emotional rather than rational I would not be a possible asset?”
“Exactly. You would be only a threat, as indeed you are now, but without any possible useful function. So you would die. It’s reasonable, isn’t it?”
“Oh, indeed. Very reasonable.”
“Good. I am very glad you understand. It makes the next steps so much easier. We are going to discuss the situation. I will tell you how I see it and invite you to point out any holes in my argument. Being a rational person you will soon see that there aren’t any and then the action you must take in your own interest will be clear. You will agree to what I may suggest of your own free will.”
I sipped my brandy. There was a strange feeling in the small of my back. Creepy. I didn’t much like being told I had no choice.
Huber refilled our glasses, opened a fresh box of Cuban cigars, offered me one and, when I refused, lit his with deliberation.
“Now,” he said, puffing carefully, “how much do you know about an organization such as ours?”
I made a non-committal sound. He smiled.
“Given your background, I am sure you know a good deal. It really would be simpler not to pretend ignorance. We have a full report on you. From an excellent source. The Mossad.” He looked me right in the eye.
“Harry and Sid,” I said.
“Harry? Oh yes, the unfortunate ex-member of Unit 101. Emil took a dislike to him. He’s dead. But Sid has been most useful. We’ve kept him in storage, as it were. Every time we have a question we bring him up here and after a little persuasion he tells us what he knows. I think we have just about exhausted his usefulness. Too bad. Yes, from Sid we know about you, about Morris Beach and how the Mossad got onto us. We know you were sent here to find Carol — Sara Ann Rayamond, that is.”
“That’s how you knew that a message at the Jam Factory would get me.” I nodded.
“Exactly. If you hadn’t interfered by getting to Carol and borrowing Dean’s car, we would have grabbed you safely at the Kaslo campground and all this unpleasantness could have been avoided.”
“I am sorry if you were inconvenienced.”
“No cheap sarcasm. Certainly I have been inconvenienced. But you cannot take all the credit for it. On the contrary, it was an internal problem.” He sighed. I noted he’d used the past tense.
“Good help is hard to get nowadays,” I offered.
“I have been inconvenienced by having to come here at all. You don’t imagine I like sitting in a hole in the ground in the middle of nowhere when I have important work to do elsewhere?”
“What sort of work?” I asked.
“Would you like to hazard a guess? It’s really off our present topic but I would be interested to know whether you have any concept …”
“I imagine the organization you are a part of functions very much like a multinational conglomerate. My guess is that you are a fairly big head office honcho. As part of some important negotiation in Calgary, something to do with oil probably, you were sent to clear up some internal problem here. What was the trouble?”
“Exactly. Very good. It’s a pleasure talking to you.” He really seemed pleased. I wondered if he wasn’t lonely for someone to talk to, someone who would appreciate him. It was unlikely that Emil would adequately serve this purpose. “Helen, to appreciate the situation properly you must understand that this operation is one of a network of similar facilities which we are establishing throughout the world. Locations are chosen based on various strategic considerations; a unit is sent out to reconnoiter, it produces a feasibility study and, if approved, the operation goes into effect. It sometimes takes up to two years before a base like this is established and ready for use.”
“What use? From what you’ve just said, and from what I’ve seen here, these bases, as you call them, are not designed with any specific purpose in mind. Just sort of ‘on spec’. Am I right?”
“Exactly. The directive calls for ‘undercover bases, i.e. safe houses, training and supply facilities to be established throughout the world in strategically important and tactically vulnerable locations.’ That’s a quotation.”
“Go on,” I urged, fascinated. “What else does the directive say?”
“Two other instructions are pertinent. There must be adequate local support. It is clearly impossible for us to operate even on a small scale without involvement of local people. Reconnaissance must establish the existence of indigenous support, either current or latent. There has to be a secure above ground component. The other instruction is also common sense. No offensive action of any kind can be undertaken anywhere in the vicinity of the base until it is formally activated by headquarters in line with an overall plan. Until then function of the local unit is strictly preparatory; construction, conservation of equipment and other housekeeping chores. They are not empowered to organize as an offensive unit. So you see the problem.” He stopped.
“So you really have no immediate need for these bases. There are no specific plans for their use. What you have is a lot of people who need to be kept busy. The whole thing is a make-work project, and the problem is that the poor slobs involved don’t know it. They believe they are part of some gigantic scheme to destroy capitalism, free the workers, and establish a new society.” I couldn’t keep the awe out of my voice.
“Oh, that is certainly our overall aim. The issue is discipline. All this private initiative is the trouble. Sometimes our own people, like A1 Shoreman, are not content to wait quietly for orders in a backwater like this. They have to get mixed up with local talent like Dean and start making independent plans! Empire builders, jumped-up little nobodies endangering the whole enterprise, disobeying orders!”
“Branch plant insubordination, eh. That’s the way it is these days. Everyone looking after Number One, with nary a thought for the corporate good.”
“There is no question that the caliber of personnel one has to work with nowadays is diverse, to say the least. There was a time we could count on idealistic young people ready to lay down their lives for the cause, disciplined and dedicated. Now what do we get! Gun-struck kids, adventurers, megalomaniacs, fanatics.”
“So Shoreman and Dean planned to conquer the U.S.A., not to mention Canada, all on their own. How were they going to do that?”
“Oh, it never got that far. It became clear to local leadership that Dean was having delusions of grandeur. Dreams of some sort of private organization with himself as leader. Nothing is further from his mind that any real revolution.”
“And Shoreman?” I asked.
“Very skilled and, with the right direction, useful operator. Needs a strong hand. It wasn’t provided. Instead, he got bored, spent too much time with Dean, fantasizing what smart guys they were and how they could run the operation, conduct action, make a name for themselves. To cut a long story short, we were notified by local leadership of what was going on and I was delegated to make a short detour here to sort things out. A month later I am still here.” He grimaced. “It’s been pretty routine. But it takes time. Security cell had to be reactivated; they’d been badly demoralized through lack of leadership. Now it’s just a tidying-up operation. Everything is under control.”
“So what do you need me for?” I said, adding “There are some loose ends, aren’t there?”
Slowly Huber turned his half-smoked cigar so it would burn evenly.
“Just so. Walters’ appearance on the scene is an inconvenience. I don’t deny it.”
“Walters is here because of the disappearance of Harry and Sid.” I stated the obvious again.
Huber waved an impatient hand.” We are quite familiar with Walters. I’ve seen his dossier. He’s a professional.”
I remained silent. Matters were coming to a head. Huber put down the stub of his cigar, took a sip of cognac, moved his chair closer to the desk, put his forearms on it, pointed at me, and said, “You are going to talk to Walters for me.”
“Ah,” I said.
“I think the situation is now sufficiently clear for a deal to be made. Listen. You will be dropped off on the main road. I leave it to you to get to Walters.” I nodded. “You will tell him that I have a proposition for him and that he’d better listen. One, he’s to persuade local law enforcement to accept Harry and Sid as Soteroff s murderers and close the case. We will supply more evidence if required. Two, he’s to deal with Beach, tell him to keep his people out of here, and quit making waves. I am sure there is some quid pro quo he can offer. Three, he’s to cool any unauthorised interest in Carol.”
I nodded.
“Now here’s what I offer in return,” Huber continued. “We will pack up this unit. Close up. Shoreman, Dean and Carol will leave the area for some good, legitimate, above-ground reason. Paul, Emil and the rest will be removed underground the way they came. ARC will be deactivated. I need a month or two of no harassment, no trouble from him, from the Mossad, the RCMP or the CIA. Understand?”
“Why should he go along?”
“Because if he doesn’t accept my deal, we will make the Iranian Embassy drama appear like a minor episode by comparison. Potentially, we have all of western U.S. as our hostage. If he sits on all this and lets us pack up quietly he will avoid a major, and I mean major, international fracas not to mention a confrontation between Canada and the U.S.”
“What can you actually do from an old hole in the ground, miles from anywhere, with twenty men and a boy? Now who is having delusions of grandeur?”
“We have a lot more than that. Not just here, but across the line. Walters will understand.”
“What have you got ‘across the line’?”
“We have the ability to trigger a potent media campaign focussing attention on developments here. I mean that, unless it’s in our interest, Walters won’t be able to keep quiet what happens here. If he tries to mop us up surreptitiously we announce in the States that we have plans to destroy the Columbia water system. Then we just step back and let Walters and Canada take the flack. Now, that’s clear, isn’t it?”
“Why don’t you do it anyway? What would stop you?”
“Let’s just say that we would prefer to withdraw from this area quietly. But if we have no choice we will use the opportunity to create an international incident. You and I both know that the Canadians have no option but to let us go, to forget about Ben, Sid and Harry, and to muzzle the Israelis. You will be go-between. Let’s get on with it.”
“You’ve made your point. What exactly do you want from me?”
“Here is a schedule of what we want Walters to do and by when.” He passed on a single sheet of paper. I read it carefully. He continued. “All you have to do is tell Walters how matters stand, and get his answer. Yes or no. That’s all.”
“How do I pass on his answer to you?”
“Don’t you worry about that. We’ll be in touch.”
“I was afraid of that.”
He laughed. “That’s the way it is. Take it or leave it.”
I took it. I wanted to live.
Huber glanced at his watch, pushed a button on the intercom, asked whomever answered whether they were ready, hung up and turned to me.
“Before you go I want you to see something. You’re quite bright. Much better material than average. You might consider joining us at some point. I realize that right now you are under strain and probably hate my guts, but it won’t last. Eventually you will see that we are working for the future. That’s all that matters. Individuals don’t.”
I remained silent.
“You will go next door. Our treatment room. Just like regular mental hospitals. Injection, electric shock. Fuzzes up the nervous system beautifully. You see, we are very up-to-date. There will be hardly be a mark on her, yet after a course of treatment she will be as docile as a lamb. No initiative at all. We need her like that, of course. Senator Raymond’s daughter. She will be great on TV, if it comes to that,” he added.
“Lovely,” I said. “And what about Dean?”
“Him we hurt. Oh yes. He will remember the pain. That’s the stick. He will be Carol’s control. You understand? That’s the carrot. He will act under our orders and through him so will she. There is no need to keep them locked up.” Huber leaned back in his chair, smiling happily. “On the contrary, they won’t be here very long. And if you plan any rescue operation while they are still here, we will kill them.”
“When do I leave?”
“Oh, no great hurry. Have a good breakfast. See Carol again, and Dean if you like. I would rather you didn’t take my word for any of this.” He lifted the phone. “Paul? Come get Helen. Feed her and let her talk to Carol and Dean. Then take her out. Usual precautions.” He stood up. “It’s been a pleasure. Give my regards to Walters.”
I too stood up and without another look at him I left the room. Paul was right outside.
The room from which Dean’s scream had come was right next door to Huber’s office. Large, bright with fluorescent light and fitted out as a cross between an operating theatre and a torture chamber. There were two tables-cum-beds with straps to hold down their occupants. An impressive stainless steel machine, like an electric stove on wheels, with a wired headset plus other attachments on tidily coiled cords. A closed cabinet, presumably holding other instruments without which no up-to-date operation of this kind would be complete. Emil and another man stood at a small table putting things away. In front of them, laid out on a towel, were assorted boxes of hospital quality sponges, ampoules and swabs, and a neat row of scalpels, probes and surgical pliers. They both wore white lab coats and looked rather like your friendly neighbourhood pharmacists. Dean sat on one of the operating tables, his body held stiffly as if avoiding any motion. He was dressed in a shirt and pants — no shoes or socks. I looked for Carol but saw only some of her clothes, including boots, in a heap on the floor. Paul motioned at another door.
“Carol’s in there. Go see her. She’s dressing.”
I nodded without speaking, picked up Carol’s clothes, and walked into the closet-sized bathroom. There was a basin with running water, a shower and a chemical toilet with Carol sitting on it. Her eyes focused on me and a small frown of concentration appeared on her face. I held her clothes in front of her.
“Here’re your duds. Pants, jacket and boots.” All she had on was a shirt. Her underwear lay on the floor. “Thanks for looking after the map for me,” I said softly. I took it out of her boot and shoved it behind the waistband at the back of my pants. She smiled weakly, still trying to concentrate.
“I forgot. I guess I forgot about it,” she said.
“That’s OK. Nobody knew you had it. Now I have it. It’s OK.” Without consciously intending to, I spoke as if to a child. “D’you need any help?” I asked.
“No. Yes, please. I’m not feeling so good.”
I was helping her dress when Dean opened the door and walked in uncertainly, heading towards the toilet to relieve himself. He groaned and almost doubled over at the pain. There was blood in his urine. Very thorough, those gentlemen of the security cell, I thought. Very well trained and efficient. No wasted motion, no silly sadism. Just good, clean, means to an end.
I walked back into the torture room, looked for Paul, and said, “I am ready.”
He led me back up the corridor towards the communal kitchen and diningroom. Again we passed the recreation hall. Only two men were at the pool table.
“Now let’s have some eats,” said Paul. For some reason I had no appetite.