Goodbye California. Alistair MacLean

theft of weapons-grade materials and mass kidnapping. Rather difficult to equate that with your alleged humanitarian purposes. Although I have no doubt you can equate anything. All you need is a sick enough mind.’

      Morro returned to his seat and propped his chin on his fists. For some reason he had not seen fit to remove the black leather gloves which he had worn throughout. ‘We are not sick. We are not zealots. We are not fanatics. We have but one purpose in mind – the betterment of the human lot.’

      ‘Which human lot? Yours?’

      Morro sighed. ‘I waste my time. Perhaps you think you are here for ransom? You are not. Perhaps you think it is our purpose to compel you and Dr Schmidt to make some kind of crude atomic weapon for us? Ludicrous – no one can compel men of your stature and integrity to do what they do not wish to do. You might think – the world might think – that we might compel you to work by the threat of torturing the other hostages, particularly the ladies? Preposterous. I would remind you again that we are no barbarians. Professor Burnett, if I pointed a six-gun between your eyes and told you not to move, would you move?’

      ‘I suppose not.’

      ‘Would you or wouldn’t you?’

      ‘Of course not.’

      ‘So, you see, the gun doesn’t have to be loaded. You take my point?’

      Burnett remained silent.

      ‘I will not give you my word that no harm will come to any of you for clearly my word will carry no weight with any of you. We shall just have to wait and see, will we not?’ He smoothed the sheet in front of him. ‘Professor Burnett and Dr Schmidt I know. Mrs Ryder I recognize.’ He looked at a bespectacled young girl with auburn hair and a rather scared expression. ‘You must, of course, be Miss Julie Johnson, stenographer.’

      He looked at the three remaining men. ‘Which of you is Mr Haverford, Deputy Director?’

      ‘I am.’ Haverford was a portly young man with sandy hair and a choleric expression who added as an afterthought: ‘Damn your eyes.’

      ‘Dear me. And Mr Carlton? Security deputy?’

      ‘Me.’ Carlton was in his mid-thirties, with black hair, permanently compressed lips and, at that moment, a disgusted expression.

      ‘You mustn’t reproach yourself.’ Morro was almost kindly. ‘There never has been a security system that couldn’t be breached.’ He looked at the seventh hostage, a pallid young man with thin pale hair whose bobbing Adam’s apple and twitching left eye were competing in sending distress signals. ‘And you are Mr Rollins, from the control room?’ Rollins didn’t say whether he was or not.

      Morro folded the sheet. ‘I should like to suggest that when you get to your rooms you should each write a letter. Writing materials you will find in your quarters. To your nearest and dearest, just to let them know that you are alive and well, that – apart from the temporary curtailment of your liberty – you have no complaints of ill treatment and have not been and will not be threatened in any way. You will not, of course, mention anything about Adlerheim or Muslims or anything that could give an indication as to your whereabouts. Leave your envelopes unsealed: we shall do that.’

      ‘Censorship, eh?’ Burnett’s second Scotch had had no mellowing effect.

      ‘Don’t be naïve.’

      ‘And if we – or I – refuse to write?’

      ‘If you’d rather not reassure your families that’s your decision entirely.’ He looked at Dubois. ‘I think we could have Drs Healey and Bramwell in now.’

      Dr Schmidt said: ‘Two of the missing nuclear physicists.’

      ‘I promised to introduce you to some guests.’

      ‘Where is Professor Aachen?’

      ‘Professor Aachen?’ Morro looked at Dubois, who pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘We know no one of that name.’

      ‘Professor Aachen was the most prestigious of the three nuclear physicists who disappeared some weeks ago.’ Schmidt could be very precise, even pedantic, in his speech.

      ‘Well, he didn’t disappear in our direction. I have never heard of him. I’m afraid that we cannot accept responsibility for every scientist who chooses to vanish. Or defect.’

      ‘Defect? Never. Impossible.’

      ‘I’m afraid that’s been exactly the reaction of American and British colleagues of scientists who have found the attractions of State-subsidized flats in Moscow irresistible. Ah! Your non-defecting colleagues, gentlemen.’

      Apart from a six-inch difference in height Healey and Bramwell were curiously alike. Dark, with thin, intelligent faces and identical horn-rimmed glasses and wearing neat, conservatively-cut clothes, they would not have looked out of place in a Wall Street boardroom. Morro didn’t have to make any introductions: top-ranking nuclear physicists form a very close community. Characteristically, it occurred to neither Burnett nor Schmidt to introduce their companions in distress.

      After the customary hand-shaking, gripping of upper arms and not-so-customary regrets that their acquaintance should be renewed in such deplorable circumstances, Healey said: ‘We were expecting you. Well, colleagues?’ Healey favoured Morro with a look that lacked cordiality.

      Burnett said: ‘Which was more than we did of you.’ By ‘we’ he clearly referred only to Schmidt and himself. ‘But if you’re here we expected Willi Aachen to be with you.’

      ‘I’d expected the same myself. But no Willi. Morro here is under the crackpot delusion that he may have defected. Man had never even heard of him, far less met him.’

      ‘“Crackpot” is right,’ Schmidt said, then added grudgingly: ‘You two look pretty fit, I must say.’

      ‘No reason why not.’ It was Bramwell. ‘An enforced and unwanted holiday, but the seven most peaceful weeks I’ve had in years. Ever, I suppose. Walking, eating, sleeping, drinking and, best, no telephone. Splendid library, as you can see, and in every suite colour TV for the weak-minded.’

      ‘Suite?’

      ‘You’ll see. Those old-time billionaires didn’t begrudge themselves anything. Any idea why you are here?’

      ‘None,’ Schmidt said. ‘We were looking to you to tell us.’

      ‘Seven weeks and we haven’t a clue.’

      ‘He hasn’t tried to make you work for him?’

      ‘Like building a nuclear device? Frankly, that’s what we thought would be demanded of us. But nothing.’ Healey permitted himself a humourless smile. ‘Almost disappointing, isn’t it?’

      Burnett looked at Morro. ‘The gun with the empty magazine; is that it?’ Morro smiled politely.

      ‘How’s that?’ Bramwell said.

      ‘Psychological warfare. Against whomsoever the inevitable threat will ultimately be directed. Why kidnap a nuclear physicist if not to have him manufacture atom bombs under duress? That’s what the world will think.’

      ‘That’s what the world will think. The world does not know that you don’t require a nuclear physicist for that. But the people who really matter are those who know that for a hydrogen bomb you do require a nuclear physicist. We figured that out our first evening here.’

      Morro was courteous as ever. ‘If I could interrupt your conversation, gentlemen. Plenty of time to discuss the past – and the present and future – later. A late supper will be available here in an hour. Meantime, I’m sure our new guests would like to see their quarters and attend to some – ah – optional correspondence.’

      Susan Ryder was forty-five and looked ten years younger. She had dark-blonde hair, cornflower-blue eyes and a smile that could be bewitching or coolly disconcerting