Текст книги "[The Girl From UNCLE 01] - The Global Globules Affair"

Автор книги: Simon Latter

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"Karadin," he snapped. "Sam, I told you not to call me unless it was urgent."

"I've remembered what I wanted to tell you," said April. "We have Suzanne. She is in the Baldini Clinic in west London. Phone them and confirm it. We also have Ginger Coke—and a few others."

She heard him gasp before she lowered the handset, sped to the front door and out on to the path, ducking under a bush when she saw Karadin and two white-coated figures rushing along the verandah.

Her trained, experienced and highly intuitive mind reasoned that Moorfell was more a testing base than a research centre. The extensions to the original house, although cleverly constructed of local stone, were not more than a year old. The switchboard's intercom key tags bore only one marked LAB. April had noticed three marked TEST, and two marked RANGE. Therefore the extensions must be mainly functional and contained few sleeping and living quarters—probably only four, excluding the three rooms on the second floor—because the other key tags were numbered 8 to 12. Karadin was 12 and he'd come from this end. He wouldn't go chasing the length of the building each time he wanted to leave, or at times of test on what could well be outside areas—or ranges.

The door was cleverly disguised to appear as an unbroken wall covered with flowering clematis. April swiftly peeled off the sealing of a lock-blowing device, inserted this deep into the oval slot and detonated it. The flat-sounding "phut" wasn't even loud enough to worry the birds, although a black bird went skittering and squawking across the drive—more in protest against her than at any noise, because he started his swoop a second before the miniature explosion came.

April checked the door surrounds, discovered the alarm strip, saw it was not activated and deduced that a master switch must control it, although probably this wasn't made live until a certain time. She neutralized the strip so that it wouldn't set off the alarm when activated.

She eased the door closed and stood on a tiled area from which one slope led downwards and the other up. Quartz lighting beamed from cornices set at angles along each wall, alternating from each side. She chose the up slope, followed it around a curve and came directly into a dome-ceiling room containing a row of racks full of cylinders. Trolleys, similar to those used to move oxygen, were lined, soldier-like, against the racks.

To the left were shelves on which were arrayed an intriguing selection of items. April noted them carefully. Training had not given her the gift of mental photography, but it had turned that gift into the split-second accuracy of a reflex camera. She didn't clutter the screen of her mind with unnecessary or unwanted images, but that which she wished to see and record was implanted there with lightning speed.

Butterfly nozzles as used in lawn spraying. Several sizes of candy-striped barber's poles. Barber's poles?–She saw Carnaby Street and the strangely speeding poles and felt a tingle of excitement.

Then a selection of miniature street lamps and traffic signals. What the hell? She inspected these more closely, fiddled with one, and almost lost the top of one finger when she touched a hidden switch and a small but powerful motor attached to tiny metal vanes started up, sending a strong force of air against her hand.

Next came a collection of street signs. "No waiting" discs. "One way", "Stop", "No U turn" and suchlike, as well as street name plates for wall or post fixing. She discerned only two differences from the real thing. They were thicker, and the underside edges bore a row of tiny holes. She picked up one, expecting it to be heavy metal. It was feather light, metal-simulated polystyrene which looked exactly like the real thing. The rear side had a flat plastic box heat-welded on to the base, a small slide aperture dead centre. Cautiously she moved the slide to the left. A small button was revealed. She pressed it and wasn't surprised to feel a tiny motor buzzing into life. Air flowed out quite strongly from the holes.

Telephone insulators, dummy plastic but impossible to tell the difference at a few yards' distance, cable insulators, electric light bulbs—which weren't, but in daylight who could tell?—fluorescent tubes, a gaily striped shop or door canopy, the edges of its frame perforated with holes. A varied and amazing selection of natural objects, and almost every one a fake.

"This is ridiculous!" April muttered. "Who would want to forge street signs?"

She tested the sliding door in the far wall. It rolled smoothly open. She closed it, surveyed the long, narrow room. Undoubtedly the LAB. Not a science-fiction writer's dream. Very clinical, clean and disappointing. A long work bench, porcelain trays neatly stacked at one end. A row of plastic jerry-cans—all empty. Then a functional sink, a small water heater, electric kettle, a coffee percolator.

The whole of one wall was lined with dull grey cabinets looking like out-of-work washing machines. April concentrated on these and was happy to recognize the lay-out required for the despised Parsimal theory, from the pressure-filled storage compartment right through to pulsator, separator and air-extraction unit. Now the whole caboodle was going click, click, click in her mind. Karadin the old fraud! Denying Parsimal but copying the whole technical lay-out to prove the theory. All except one important part.

April flashed her mind back to her student days in Paris. The screen of memory hazed, flickered, then cleared. She went again to the last cabinet, and slid open the inspection flap. The Parsimal Theory didn't require a compressor. In fact a compressor would nullify the earlier stages, so the processing was a waste of time. It was jelling now. For a moment April wished she had gone on to a degree in physics, for she felt her present knowledge inadequate for the task. Then suddenly she had the link—separate and compress instead of separate, diffuse and direct, and what would you get? Molicular globules in suspension! That wasn't the correct technical definition, but the substance was near enough an answer to satisfy her.

The apparatus also would satisfy the British authorities, because similar processes could be used for research into air pollution via rain, fog, mist or steam condensation. Dr. Karadin didn't have to disclose his method or techniques and formulas. April's excitement grew as she discovered proof linking to what, in the first instance, had been a hunch on her part. But she still needed more evidence.

The next door had to be persuaded. It wasn't difficult to break the magnetic circuit, but the task took time. At last she was inside the Karadin sanctum–this was obvious by the furnishings, the desk photograph of his daughter and himself. The far door was partly open, as was a steel filing cabinet. Proof of his hurried exit.

"Well, thank you, Dr. K," April muttered. She closed the door and went swiftly to the files. This took time, but it was not time begrudged. She ignored the ordinary business files of letters after a quick glance through them. A slim file at the back held her attention. It contained photostat copies. The originals, according to code symbols, were in America. She didn't wait to decipher these in full, but pressed on to the contents. These were written in Urdu.

This variety of Hindustani is not commonly known to Westerners. Much of its vocabulary is taken from Arabic and Persian. But April had learned Arabic as a child when her father was serving in the Middle East, and later in India found it comparatively easy to learn Urdu, which was spoken by the Moslems. No doubt Karadin and his organization bosses considered that such documents, if written in Urdu, would not require any higher security than a stout steel file cabinet. That this was unlocked would be due only to the abrupt departure of Karadin from the office.

April searched around for a container of some sort, and soon found a leather-capped zipper shoulder bag next to fishing tackle in the far corner. The bag smelled fishy but was clean and dry. She stowed the papers into it, as well as a. sample of letters from some British manufacturing chemists referring to supplies. She stowed her own purse in it as well. She was about to zip up the bag when she heard footsteps.

She opened her purse, took out the lipstick and moved to one side as the door opened. A small dark woman came in, a mannish-looking woman with cropped hair, wearing a white coat and slacks. She looked at the open file cabinet, closed it, took keys from her pocket and locked it, muttering:

"Oh, really, Carl—you panic too quickly, you poor darling!" April closed the door. "Yes, doesn't he?" she said quietly. The woman gasped and whirled around. She was in her thirties, dark-eyed, fine drawn, with crows feet of tiredness or strain pouching her eyes. She leapt to the desk, hand reaching for the drawer nearest her. April dropped the bag and leapt just that shade faster. She had the drawer open, fended off the woman with the other hand, using the woman's own impetus to spin her off-balance, to crash against the wall.

April took out the gun, snicked off the safety-catch. It was a Voegler automatic with silencer.

"Thanks," she said. "I thought there must be one some where, but I hadn't got around to looking for it." The woman moved. "No, dear—don't try it." The gun spat. The bullet plucked the shoulder seam of the woman's white coat and thudded into the wall.

"Mmm—quite accurate," April observed. "The next one will hurt you, so please—no heroics, huh?"

The woman's face had paled, her eyes scared. "I've heard that your sort of woman is ruthless. That you even like killing. But it won't help you to kill me."

April smiled. "I wouldn't dream of killing you. I said hurt you—ping, ping in nasty juicy places–unless you are sensible." She frowned quizzically. "My sort of woman? Now I wonder what that means?"

"I've heard all about you. Why, he even admires you—though he admits you're dangerous."

"Ah! That's men for you—two-faced, aren't they? Funny thing, Bertha, but I admire Carl darling too."

"My name is not Bertha."

"Is it not? It suits you though." She paused. "So what do we do now, Bertha?" She slid the swivel chair clear of the desk. "I think you'd better come and sit down." She waggled the gun as she added sharply: "Come on, now, Bertha—my sort of woman is very short on patience."

The woman came slowly at first, then with a little shrug of resignation moved swiftly to the chair, sat down and looked up at April, who had hitched one thigh on the desk corner. They both heard the sound of the helicopter taking off, growing louder as it passed overhead. Tears filled the woman's eyes.

"So he's gone to his daughter?" said April softly.

The woman's hands covered her face. "Damn her!" she said huskily. "Damn her, damn her, damn her—the little bitch!" She lowered her hands and glared at April. "And damn you too!"

"Good for you!" said April. "Let's have a good damn all round. Damn the project, damn the organization—damn everything except that which binds my man to me. Is that it, Bertha?"

The woman lowered her gaze, began fiddling her fingers, locking and unlocking them, surveying them, flexing them.

"My name is Ingrid."

"Nice. Swedish?"

"My mother was. I shan't tell you anything."

"Who cares?" said April airily. "What would you have to tell anyway? I doubt if you know the whole story." She looked shrewdly at Ingrid. "A biology degree, a career– woman complex, perhaps a doting mother who hated men. A few rather boring jobs. Then suddenly the charming Dr. Karadin—the secret research work, the close contact, the sweet, sad fire of suddenly discovered passion expressed through the experienced doctor. The togetherness, the seeming fulfillment, the promise of fortune and a future shared—and a ready-made daughter in a package deal."

Ingrid's eyes stared widely. "How could you know all that? How could you?"

April shrugged. "Right?"

"Almost to the letter. In God's name—how?"

"You are legion," said April sadly. "Oh dear heaven, yes—you are legion! We could have a long, cozy, girlish chat, but there's no time, and I'm afraid it would bore me. Because, dear Ingrid, your sort do bore me."

"We can't all be as hard as you. You're some sort of agent, aren't you?"

"Mmm—some sort."

"You must live an unnatural life."

April laughed. "What is natural?—the tiger in a cage or in a jungle? The cloistered nun or the cluttered housewife? The prissy missy or the supercilious spouse? The idealistic teenage infant or the mature and marvelous mother? We are them all—you and I—each in our own way—past, present or future. So spare me that guff about being unnatural. Would you like to tell me how many guards are left in this house?"

"He's gone, so what does it matter?"

"That's a fair conclusion. Maybe he'll come back for you?"

"He won't. He'll get her away—out of danger. Not me." She shivered. "I've got to look after myself now. I've done nothing wrong."

"Well, if you have—it's got to be proved."

"I don't know exactly what the globules are for. They will certainly neutralize sulphur in the air." She glanced up, eyes clear now. Intelligent eyes. "But there's more to it than that, isn't there?"

"Yes, dear—a lot more."

She nodded slowly, then smiled. "There's only Greco and Prodder and me here. There are five guards out on the moors searching for you."

"Prodder?"

"You shot him, didn't you? The switchboard operator."

"Only to sleep," said April.

"Well, he's sleeping. I've given Greco first aid, but he needs a doctor."

"All in good time. How long have you worked here?"

"Nearly two years. It's been—it was—the most wonderful time of my life. Until she came over from France six months ago. Then he had a lot of money. That luxurious house in London—and these tough men always about the place."

"Did you ever see Sirdar the Turk?"

"So you know about him too? Yes, he stayed here for about a week. A horrid man."

"Anyone else?"

"Quite a few visitors. Important men. Some foreign, some American, and a few British, who came to see the range experiments."

"So Carl put on a show for them?"

"Well, yes, he had to. You know what this country is like. You need lots of permits and licenses—things like that. So they send these inspectors and officials. It was a great joke to Carl. He'd say: 'Come along, darling, let us put on our magicians' act for these earnest little men.'"

"But not using the Urdu formula?"

Ingrid looked startled. "I'm not saying any more. Shoot me if you like. I'm saying nothing that will harm him."

"Oh brother!" April murmured. "You sure are legion!" She manipulated the lipstick, eased off the desk and sauntered around the chair. She pressed the secret contact. The needle containing chloral hydrate shot out ready for use.

"I don't know where you go from here," said April, "but I'd make it a long way if I were you." She pressed into Ingrid's arm where the sleeve had ridden up. Surprisingly, Ingrid didn't cry out.

"I don't care," she said. "I don't care any more." She was still saying it as she fell asleep.

April took the key bunch and left.

The keys opened the way to swift inspection of Ingrid's own office, a lobby containing dresses made of the silvery-glinting metal. April detached samples for analysis. A monitoring room next to the hall gave her a laugh when she manipulated the instrument controls and saw the guards spaced out over the moors, probing into bushes and gullies, looking for her. All were wearing metal suits. She also saw that three cameras were focused on the "ranges"—sites placed at three levels on the moors. Not much to see. Merely skeletal structures of varying heights stepping up to a tower. April connected these with the collection of items in the first room and obtained a fair picture of the purpose.

She also found in the monitoring room the alarm/protection system of controls, trip wires and infra-red beams which worked thunder flashes, smoke pots and other warning devices. She set all the switches at "alert". She could now proceed through the rest of the building knowing she couldn't be taken by surprise.

CHAPTER SIX: GO– GAL– GO!

MARK SLATE ran the Aston Martin around the back of some bushes, climbed to a vantage point and surveyed the house and the moor surrounding it. He saw the men working their way over the moor, but they were far distant enough to give him time to get inside. There was no movement in the grounds, nor lights, even though dusk was near.

He'd circled around as far as he dare take the car in case it got bogged down and was approaching the house from the opposite side to the trees and driveway. A high fence ran from the original wall at the front to meet up with the same wall at the rear; it was electrified and no doubt connected with alarms inside the house. He searched for the contact wire and feed junctions, found and neutralized them.

Within five minutes he was inside the grounds. He had scarcely gone three yards when a thunder flash exploded, and two smoke pots fizzed off acrid clouds.

"Aw, to hell with it!" he exclaimed. "They daren't use any killer devices here. The worst I'll get is some scorch marks." He sped over grass in a straight line. His guess was good, for the devices were staggered so as to catch the intruder who zigzagged. Mark set off only one flash before reaching a side door. "Bash on!" he muttered. "They'll turn the dogs loose any minute." Drawing his U.N.C.L.E. gun, he blasted the lock, crashed the door open and leapt inside.

The room was filled with racks and shelving. Metal suits hung on the racks, gumboots, gloves and shiny hats shaped like firemen's helmets, and items that looked like hand fire extinguishers, filled the shelves. He pressed on. No time for detailed inspection. April Dancer must be somewhere in the center of this rambling house.

He went through a small office containing two bunk beds, a desk, portable typewriter. Graphs hung on the walls. A notice board held lists of duty rosters.

He slid open a partition, was faced with a steel door, and tentatively tried the catch. The door swung inward. He stepped into a long white room, apparently a mixture of laboratory and packing room. He whirled as a voice behind him said:

"What kept you?"

Mark holstered his gun.

"Blast you, April! Can't you ever be the distressed damsel rescued at the last minute by the great dumb he-man?"

She flashed a smile at him, leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

"Hiya, he-man!"

He returned the kiss. "Hiya, damsel! Did you have a bad last minute?"

"Uproarious!" She chuckled. "I set all the alarms so I wouldn't be disturbed. Then I saw you, but I was too late to switch off." She waved a hand. "Very busy here. You got news?"

"Most of it will keep, but Headquarters are rather keen for us to call in the French choppers if we need help. Seem to be nervous of us starting anything in England."

April's eyes widened. "Oh golly! Headquarters—I forgot all about them!"

"Forgot! That, me old darling, can be construed as famous last words. Well, goodbye—nice to have worked with you!"

She tapped the bag, said in a wheedling voice: "I've got goodies. Formula, samples, lists, suppliers—and I'm just about to collect the gem of all the goodies—a real live sample of K.S.R.6."

"Which is what?"

"This." April walked to where a large vat stood next to racks of small containers. "Neat K.S.R.6. You press the end of a container in here. It's compression-filled and self– sealing." She moved a sliding cupboard door. A small tap fell out. "Then you screw this into the sealing and you have yourself a prescribed dosage of K.S.R.6 for any purpose—distance no object."

"You've done all this?"

"Not yet. You set off the bang-bangs and disturbed me."

"Is this stuff dangerous?"

"In concentrated form—yes, I'd say it is." She pointed to the end wall. "There are gowns and mob-caps—like surgeons use, only in this weird metal stuff. Masks and gloves too."

"How much time have we?" Mark asked as he hurried to fetch the clothing.

"Until the guards come back, and as much time as we can make." April was turning valves and watching dials. "I don't know how long this thing will take for pressure to build up."

Mark took out his slim pigskin case. "I need a smoke. Have one?"

"Not now."

He put the case on the porcelain bench top near the vat and lit up. They helped each other on with the metal clothing, leaving the masks looped under their chins.

"You were quick," said April. "Your old-boy-pals act paid off, huh?"

"Thought you hadn't been in contact?"

"I mean Mr. Waverly. Good car?"

"Spot on. The plane was a bit ropey on one engine, but we made it. I cut off the moor road, risking a smashed axle or some such point. We've only to scoot around this place and on to the track leading to the road. Then we can make for Plymouth or back for the plane at Exeter. Might need gassing up."

"Or if in a hurry, call the French choppers."

"Looks as if the noble Count has bought it."

"Dead?"

Mark shrugged. "Surrounded by figures in this metal gear last time we heard of him. THRUSH hijacked his chopper. But Sama Paru is around some place. Isn't this blasted thing cooking yet?"

April grinned. "Hungry?"

"Don't remind me—I am!" He plumed smoke. "So you managed to get Papa out of here. Nice work."

"Thanks. Seems you did a neat job in Regent's Park."

They smiled at each other.

"You're gorgeous," said Mark. "Nice holiday?"

"Delightful! I think supper's about ready." She laughed. "Those guards must have wondered whether to stay or come back here."

"Would they have heard the bang-bangs?"

She shrugged. "Possibly—but even so, they'll take time to get back. Pull up your mask and stand by."

Mark said: "There's a release valve this side. I'll ease it off if you strike trouble."

"Here goes!" April pushed home the container. In her eagerness to ram it hard enough to perforate the sealing and so lock the container to the filler valve, she tilted it slightly off-center. A stream of fluid hissed over her hands and the porcelain-topped bench. Mark spun the release valve, but the injector had ceased.

"Timed flow," he said, screwing up the valve. "Try again."

April took another cylinder. This time she made no error. The hissing of the injector stopped. The container jerked back in her hands. She shook it gently, inspected it. "One more for luck." She filled another, collected a handful of taps, put these and the containers in the bag, zipped it up, then turned to see Mark staring at the bench.

"My God! This stuff's a killer—look at my case! Or what was my case." The pigskin had dissolved into a gooey mess, shriveled away from the metal frame.

"Neat K.S.R.6," said April, spreading her gloved hands. "It sprayed all over these; but they're okay."

"Car-iss-ima! What will it do to the human skin?"

"It isn't intended for use on skin, but people in constant contact with it must wear this type of clothing."

Mark nodded. "It jells, darling—it jells. Clever girl! Those chicks in Carnaby Street gave you the lead?"

April smiled. "I'd like to go down to posterity as a genius, but no—not as simple as that. I thought the dresses intriguing. I couldn't see why they were being modeled so publicly, because they weren't on sale. Then I saw Dr. Karadin and a silly little bell started ringing in my wee head. Years ago he had this thing about the Parsimal Theory—I won't go into that now—but he also had a very, very big thing about a world currency. He belonged to a wealthy family, but some collapse of the currency in which their wealth was invested wiped out his inheritance."

"So he became a fanatic on the subject? That's understandable. It ain't funny to see all your buy go down the spout."

"That's true. But he made a lot of trouble for himself. Professors in politics, or those who interfere in political issues, are not very popular. Yet he was a brilliant scientist. I think he still is." She stared at Mark. "What is worse than a brilliant scientist who becomes a nutcase?"

"Two ditto scientists."

"One is enough to devise a bomb."

"And if that one defects with his nasty little secret..."

"… and finds someone who not only believes in him and his work but guarantees him a fortune and—say—a world currency?..."

Mark grinned. "I'd better empty my teapot!"

"Teapot?"

"Weak joke. An old British custom. They can't abide to throw away old teapots. They keep 'em and stuff 'em with money for their holidays or a rainy day. Yes—I don't need a diagram to see the connection." He paused, gazing at April as he said slowly: "That's what happened to my cash paper money—and yours! Holy Hannibal—wotta jolly old carve-up!"

"But not Dr. Karadin's cash in its" – she flicked the gown—"in its cozy metal protection."

"Nor Suzanne's with her little purse ditto."

April grinned. "So you put the bite on her for lunch?" Then seriously tapping the vat: "This is neat K.S.R.6 in here. It stands weakening to around a thousand to one."

"A thousand to one what?"

"Rain water, or specially softened water. It is designed to be spun out under pressure and is so constituted that it remains in miniscule globules."

"You should put that to music. So we are surrounded by miniscule globules. Why then does not our skin peel off?"

"In that diffused solution it doesn't affect the skin. As the moisture dries out, a vapor is released from each globule. This vapor has an affinity of reconstitution with banknote paper and the ink used to print it. The dosage can be varied for each country, according to types of paper and ink. The vapor penetrates clothing, purses, wallets, through cracks in doors or safes, is carried into banks, shops—anywhere. All paper money will absorb it—some parchments or heavy quality paper also can be affected. Once the vapor reaches your money it at once reconstitutes itself and, in the process, turns your lovely crisp notes into an ugly, indistinguishable mess."

"So all we have to do is carry ruddy great bags of silver—at least those who have enough notes left to change into silver?"

"Don't be a fool, Mark."

"Sorry, mate. You've certainly done your homework. So this is Karadin's base and jollop factory?"

"The British one. Important, I think, because the British print currency for a number of countries. And possibly the first, being easiest for Karadin to prove his case to his backers. But make no mistake, Mark—this is global, and their plans must be pretty far advanced."

"Ye gods! The Global Globules! Darling—they won't believe us! And if they do..." He paused and whistled softly.

"Yes," she said. "It doesn't call for much imagination to picture the panic by ordinary people whose wages and housekeeping money is suddenly worthless—the run on all banks and currency issuing centers. Even their vaults aren't safe. Chaos—economic chaos. Would the way be open for a world currency? But that is only a starter."

"Is there an antidote—or whatever the stuff might be called?"

"I wouldn't know." She touched his silvery metal sleeve. "Only this stuff is protection..."

Mark whirled, running to the window as they heard thunder flashes exploding. "The guards are back! More of them than I thought—and three are not wearing metal clothes."

"We'll have to bluff them," said April. "With the face masks pulled up..."

"...And these comical hats. Hold on to that bag, me old darling—I'll cover your getaway." He fumbled under the gown for his pocket. "The car keys."

"Both of us

"No—dammit it, woman, stop being so bloody equal!" He grinned. "And anyway, that bag is bigger than both of us!"

April said: "The metal men are going around that end—we'll go out the front hall. The other three are heading thataway."

They left the room, masks pulled up.

Mark said, close to her ear: "Car radio—red switch on left—push down for open circuit Channel D link with all-Europe H.Q."

She nodded, briefly. Her eyes smiled at him. Then they were in the hall.

The three men had just entered.

"... Where's that old fool Sam?" a dark, thick-set man was saying. "Ah! Ingrid! What's going on here? I couldn't raise the house on the car phone. And what the hell are the guards doing, parading over the moors in their K suits? We've finished tests." He halted, peering hard, obviously noting the difference in coloring of eyes and hair. "You're not Ingrid—"

April Dancer took one pace forward, then a swift side step as the man's hand flashed to a shoulder gun. Her free hand flicked across his eyes, the point of her shoe swinging against the most vulnerable point of his knee. His body came forward and down as his leg gave way, leaving his neck a perfect target. April didn't waste the target. Her hand chopped down. His body pitched forward and lay still.

The other two men had stood back, undecided, and not quick enough to move as fast as their companion. Mark Slate took one of them, crashed him to the floor and got a wrist hold on the second man's gun-arm before the gun was leveled. The gun fired upwards. Mark broke the man's arm, then in a flurry of blows collapsed him.

April was nearing the door, tearing off the restricting gown.

"Come!" she called as Mark picked up the man's gun. The door burst open and more metal-clad figures rushed in.

"Go!" Mark yelled to her. "Go—gal–go!"

CHAPTER SEVEN: PRETTY LADY LIKE LIFT?

THE incoming guards had set off smoke traps in the driveway when their Land Rover swung around at the far end, running over a section of the lawn to miss a Jaguar car parked slantways by the front door.

A veil of white smoke hid the end of the building through which Mark had entered. Two men in metal suits were dowsing part of the drive with hand fire extinguishers—possibly to neutralize other devices. They saw April run out, one arm still in the metal gown, the mask still on her face. Obviously thinking she was Ingrid, they came towards her, calling: "Go back, Miss—go back!" and pointing to the lawn where smoke still wreathed over the grass.

April called: "Get on with your work and mind your own business."

The nearest man hesitated.

"D'you hear me?" April yelled. "Do as I say!" The authority in her voice was made more effective by her own urgency.