The Lords Of The Crimson River

Chapter 2

Lord Leighton wouldn't have been so sure about the programmer's loyalty if he'd known the man was also an undercover agent for MI6A. He was supposed to watch for any signs of hostile espionage in Complex Two and also for any irregularities in the management of the Project itself.

Lord Leighton would have also been infuriated to learn that J knew all about the programmer's undercover activities. J had agreed to have Leighton spied on only after a long argument with the Prime Minister. J knew that Leighton was loyal, as well as rich enough to be nearly unbribable. His private vices, if any, were really nobody else's business. He also knew what Lord Leighton would think of his being spied on.

The Prime Minister turned a deaf ear to everything J said. «I don't necessarily disagree with you,» he said. «But Leighton isn't the whole Project. At least fifty other men could make off with a good deal of money or valuable supplies if they had a chance. We can't afford to leave them unwatched. Surely Leighton will understand that we're not after him?»

J shook his head. «He might, but it wouldn't make any difference. He only tolerates security against espionage. Otherwise, he'll defend any scientist against us as if we'd attacked him personally.»

«If he's that thin-skinned, do you think he's really suitable as director of the Project?»

There was no point in wasting tact on anybody capable of such an idiotic remark. J shrugged. «I hardly think that matters. There's certainly no one else suitable.»

The Prime Minister decided to reply as bluntly. «Very well, J. I'll put it as a direct order. Your people in the Project are to keep watch for any irregularities, not just foreign intelligence activities. I'll put that order in writing, so there won't be any question about what happens to you if it isn't carried out. Or would you rather retire now? We can keep this matter quiet if you do. You're gifted, J, but you're certainly not as unique as you say Leighton is.»

The only really adequate reply to those words would have been to punch the Prime Minister in the nose. Since this was out of the question, there was really nothing J could do except go along and have Leighton's activities watched. The Prime Minister was partly right. Watching over the Project's security meant more than looking for Russian spies and English embezzlers. It meant looking out for Richard Blade and looking after Lord Leighton.

So J gave his undercover man in Complex Two the appropriate orders and hoped the young man would know when to turn a blind eye. For a while it looked as if his hopes would be justified.

Then came the eager call describing Leighton's new studies of the computer's electrical field and what he might be planning to do with them. J listened politely until he could find an excuse for hanging up, then poured himself a whiskey so large that his doctor would have screamed in protest. He sat down with the whiskey in his hand, staring out at another dismally gray and rainy London afternoon.

He was going to have to act on this call, even if he thought the young man was jumping to conclusions. Leighton certainly seemed to have another bee in his bonnet. If the bee buzzed loudly enough, sooner or later the Prime Minister would hear it. Then there'd be questions asked, including why J hadn't informed the P.M. before.

Also, there was Richard Blade to think about. Leighton's brainstorms sometimes created new and unnecessary dangers for Richard. Even if the younger man hadn't been almost a son to J, the old spymaster would have had to protest at putting the Project's only reliable test subject in unnecessary danger.

The first thing to do, however, was call Richard himself. J drained the glass, went to the scrambled telephone in the corner, and began punching in Blade's number.

It took J quite awhile to reach Blade, because the younger man wasn't at home or even in London. He was in Hampshire, miles from the nearest telephone, looking at a country house he wanted to buy.

The real-estate agent fluttered around Blade like some annoying but harmless insect, humming the praises of the house. He seemed totally undaunted by the fact that the black-haired man beside him was nearly twice his size, six foot one and two hundred and fifty pounds, all of it muscle, which even Blade's heavy tweed sports jacket couldn't conceal. If Blade had wanted, he could have crushed the man like a fly.

Instead Richard Blade tried to ignore him. He already knew everything he needed to know about the place. It would be nearly perfect for him, and it would also cost much more than he could afford. The initial cost wouldn't be outrageous for a house, outbuildings, and thirteen acres of land. It was making the place fit to live in that would break him. The house was built around 1760, and it had never really been modernized. Even worse, the last two owners hadn't bothered to keep the place up properly. Blade wasn't about to bankrupt himself doing all the work they'd left undone over the last fifty years.

The agent was still talking. Blade listened briefly, decided he still wasn't saying anything important, and started doing mental arithmetic. He wanted the house so badly he could taste it. He also wanted to find some flaw in his previous calculations which would let him make an offer. All his training and experience warned him against this sort of wishful thinking, but this time he wasn't facing a KGB agent or some monster in Dimension X. This was his private life, and he was damned well going to do some wishful thinking if he felt like it.

Unfortunately all Blade's desire for the house couldn't make the figures come out in his favor. He would still be a good fifteen thousand pounds short. He was about to cut off the agent's humming when a thought struck him. «Are you allowed to sell an option on this house?» he asked.

The agent looked at him for a moment as if «option» were a word in Chinese. Then an unmistakable look of eagerness passed over his thin face, and he nodded.

By the time they'd finished sketching out the terms for an option agreement, the rain was coming down in sheets. Blade hoped none of the low spots in the dirt lane back to the highway would flood. The idea of being marooned here all night with no better company than the real-estate agent was unappealing.

For three thousand pounds, half of it refundable, Blade could buy an exclusive option on the house for six months. That would give him time for the next trip into Dimension X, no matter how long it took to fix the KALI capsule. His broken jaw was completely healed, and he himself was fit and ready to go.

The option would also give him time to try bargaining with the real-estate firm on the price of the house. From the agent's eagerness over the option, his firm hadn't had a decent offer on the house for years. They might be willing to bargain, particularly if Blade didn't need a mortgage. He hoped they wouldn't ask too many questions about where his cash came from.

Apart from its condition, the location of the house made it suitable only for someone who wanted to be fairly close to London, but otherwise wanted as much solitude as he could get in southern England. That was a perfect description of Blade. He'd always been a man who preferred to walk alone, like a cat. Otherwise he'd never have gone into intelligence work and then into Project Dimension X. As time went by, his experiences in Dimension X set him more and more apart from everyone else in the world. He'd long since stopped caring about the London party circuit, with its light chatter, light minds, and light women who could give him a night's pleasure but not a minute's real companionship.

Then he came home from the forest of Binaark with the semi-intelligent hunting cat, Lorma. He wasn't going to let her spend the rest of her life in the hands of the Project's veterinarians, and their curiosity be damned! As soon as he was out of the hospital after his trip to Kaldak, he started looking for a country house. Now he'd found one, if he could only get the price down!

Blade climbed into the Rover and turned on the headlights and engine. Then he put the car in gear and started his slow creep back down the lane. Behind him the house was now completely invisible in the rain and the gathering twilight.

Blade didn't drive back to London that night. He checked into a hotel in Basingstoke, ate a good if overpriced dinner with plenty of whiskey and soda, then called his home for any recorded messages. As soon as he'd heard what J left, he called the number J used when Blade or a select handful of other people weren't using a scrambled phone.

As usual, nobody answered. Blade sipped at his drink, then said, «Record. J, this is Richard, returning your call. I'm at the Golden Keys in Basingstoke,» and gave the hotel's telephone and his own room number. «I'll come straight to the branch office. I should be there by ten A.M.

«I certainly think we ought to discuss this matter with His Excellency.[1] But I think we should put it in the form of a question-does he have any new investment plans? That should also conceal the sources of our information. End recording.»

Blade suspected that telling J to be tactful with Lord Leighton was like teaching his grandmother to suck eggs. But you couldn't be too careful in dealing with Lord Leighton, with his improbably brilliant mind and impossibly short temper. Also, J sometimes behaved toward Blade like a mother hen with one chick. Blade knew why J did this, and also knew it could sometimes cause more problems than the Project could tolerate.

Whatever J said to Leighton, Blade hoped he'd say it before Leighton discovered that his secret scheme wasn't a secret anymore. Otherwise there wouldn't be much chance of avoiding a bloody awful scene. Blade shuddered at the thought, considered having another drink, then decided against it. He was going to be getting up early if he wanted to be in London by ten tomorrow morning. He did a quick one hundred and fifty push-ups; then with his pajamas and towel over his arm, he walked into the bathroom.