folder, took out a sheet of paper and handed it to the Minister, saying, ‘At long last there seems to be some kind of pattern, a sort of consistent occurrence. Your own department and the FO computers have thrown up an interesting fact.’
‘Computers,’ the Minister cut in, ‘need people to feed them, don’t they?’
‘Yes, Minister, I know what you’re getting at. We’ve been doubly careful about that; we checked on everyone and everything.’ He smiled smoothly, savouring his next remark. ‘We even checked you out.’
The Minister glared, making no comment.
‘We’ve checked with Washington, Minister, and …’
‘And?’
‘We found that every death has, in some way or other, been linked with the Orient.’
‘The Orient?’
‘Yes. The computers won’t give us anything definite, but they do come up with that area of the world consistently, too consistently to be coincidental.’
The Health Minister now showed his impatience and spoke quickly, curtly, ‘Sir Richard, this kind of information can only lead to more confusion. Dorman, our top medical man, has been murdered! What are you suggesting? A Far Eastern country is responsible?’
‘I’m not suggesting it’s necessarily a definite link with Dorman’s death, though there might be a link somewhere. I’m merely reporting what we’re finding at this moment in time.’
‘Are you saying there’s a definite link between Dorman’s murder and ENDS?’
‘I’m not saying that exactly, Minister, but there might be.’
‘You’re confusing me, Sir Richard. If there is a definite link, what is it?’
‘Well, for instance, we all know that many acupuncture centres have been set up all over the world, and more and more people are having treatment.’ Sir Richard paused. ‘Successfully.’
‘So?’
‘So, Minister, the treatment originated in China, the Far East.’
Hall frowned, his face showing disbelief. ‘Are you suggesting that something is being done in the acupuncture centres to kill VIPs?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But surely if that was happening, it would show on health profiles, on tests?’
‘True.’
‘And you seem to forget, the deaths are being registered as from natural causes.’
‘Yes, it’s very puzzling.’
‘And,’ Hall went on, ‘Dorman was murdered outright.’
The telephone rang on Hall’s desk. He grabbed at it. His face grew stern, worried. By the time he had replaced the receiver, Sir Richard guessed there was more bad news. He said, ‘What’s happened?’
‘Besides Professor Dorman,’ Hall said slowly, ‘we had that terrible shock yesterday with the death of our Consul in Marseille. Now reports are coming in of the death of the American President’s daughter. She was twenty-eight. It’s from natural causes.’
Mike Clifford turned off his car radio and concentrated on the road ahead, the beginning of the Brighton to London motorway. At first he had disbelieved the news. Then Scotland Yard contacted him direct at Sussex University. He was told to return immediately. After the initial disbelief and utter shock, he became angry, and that anger was still deep inside him.
‘Bastards!’ He shouted out the word at the top of his voice, following up with other words that helped to relieve his feelings towards the killer and anything or anyone involved with the murderer.
Mike Clifford was normally the kind of man who had iron control over his emotions. Tall, fair, good-looking, he was 38years of age. He was the only son of a Yorkshire miner; his parents had died many years ago. He had managed to escape a life in the industrial north by studying medicine. He had been a promising student, and by the end of his degree course, that promise had been fulfilled. Then, his research work at the University of Sussex had brought him to the notice of Professor Dorman.
Within a short time of joining him, Mike Clifford had been swept into the professor’s world. He was happy to have the opportunity of
‘Computers,’ the Minister cut in, ‘need people to feed them, don’t they?’
‘Yes, Minister, I know what you’re getting at. We’ve been doubly careful about that; we checked on everyone and everything.’ He smiled smoothly, savouring his next remark. ‘We even checked you out.’
The Minister glared, making no comment.
‘We’ve checked with Washington, Minister, and …’
‘And?’
‘We found that every death has, in some way or other, been linked with the Orient.’
‘The Orient?’
‘Yes. The computers won’t give us anything definite, but they do come up with that area of the world consistently, too consistently to be coincidental.’
The Health Minister now showed his impatience and spoke quickly, curtly, ‘Sir Richard, this kind of information can only lead to more confusion. Dorman, our top medical man, has been murdered! What are you suggesting? A Far Eastern country is responsible?’
‘I’m not suggesting it’s necessarily a definite link with Dorman’s death, though there might be a link somewhere. I’m merely reporting what we’re finding at this moment in time.’
‘Are you saying there’s a definite link between Dorman’s murder and ENDS?’
‘I’m not saying that exactly, Minister, but there might be.’
‘You’re confusing me, Sir Richard. If there is a definite link, what is it?’
‘Well, for instance, we all know that many acupuncture centres have been set up all over the world, and more and more people are having treatment.’ Sir Richard paused. ‘Successfully.’
‘So?’
‘So, Minister, the treatment originated in China, the Far East.’
Hall frowned, his face showing disbelief. ‘Are you suggesting that something is being done in the acupuncture centres to kill VIPs?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But surely if that was happening, it would show on health profiles, on tests?’
‘True.’
‘And you seem to forget, the deaths are being registered as from natural causes.’
‘Yes, it’s very puzzling.’
‘And,’ Hall went on, ‘Dorman was murdered outright.’
The telephone rang on Hall’s desk. He grabbed at it. His face grew stern, worried. By the time he had replaced the receiver, Sir Richard guessed there was more bad news. He said, ‘What’s happened?’
‘Besides Professor Dorman,’ Hall said slowly, ‘we had that terrible shock yesterday with the death of our Consul in Marseille. Now reports are coming in of the death of the American President’s daughter. She was twenty-eight. It’s from natural causes.’
Mike Clifford turned off his car radio and concentrated on the road ahead, the beginning of the Brighton to London motorway. At first he had disbelieved the news. Then Scotland Yard contacted him direct at Sussex University. He was told to return immediately. After the initial disbelief and utter shock, he became angry, and that anger was still deep inside him.
‘Bastards!’ He shouted out the word at the top of his voice, following up with other words that helped to relieve his feelings towards the killer and anything or anyone involved with the murderer.
Mike Clifford was normally the kind of man who had iron control over his emotions. Tall, fair, good-looking, he was 38years of age. He was the only son of a Yorkshire miner; his parents had died many years ago. He had managed to escape a life in the industrial north by studying medicine. He had been a promising student, and by the end of his degree course, that promise had been fulfilled. Then, his research work at the University of Sussex had brought him to the notice of Professor Dorman.
Within a short time of joining him, Mike Clifford had been swept into the professor’s world. He was happy to have the opportunity of
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