What The Left Hand Was Doing by Randall Garrett (free ereaders txt) 📗

Then Spencer Candron used the telephone, punching the first of the two code numbers he had been given. A connection was made to the room where a twenty-four-hour guard kept watch over James Ch’ien via television pickups hidden in the walls of his prison apartment in the basement.

Candron had listened to recordings of one man’s voice for hours, getting the exact inflection, accent, and usage. Now, he made use of that practice.

“This is General Soong,” he said sharply. “We are sending a Dr. Wan down to persuade the guest. We will want recordings of all that takes place.”

[25] “Yes, sir,” said the voice at the other end.

“Dr. Wan will be there within ten minutes, so be alert.”

“Yes, sir. All will be done to your satisfaction.”

“Excellent,” said Candron. He smiled as he hung up. Then he punched another secret number. This one connected him with the guards outside Ch’ien’s apartment. As General Soong, he warned them of the coming of Dr. Wan. Then he went to the window, stepped out, and headed for the roof again.

There was no danger that the calls would be suspected. Those two phones could not be contacted except from inside the Palace, and not even then unless the number was known.

Again he dropped down Elevator Shaft Three. Only Number One was operating this late in the evening, so there was no fear of meeting it coming up. He dropped lightly to the roof of the car, where it stood empty in the basement, opened the escape hatch in the roof, dropped inside, opened the door, and emerged into the first basement. Then he started down the stairs to the subbasement.

The guards were not the least suspicious, apparently. Candron wished he were an honest-to-God telepath, so he could be absolutely sure. The officer at the end of the corridor that led to Ch’ien’s apartment was a full captain, a tough-looking, swarthy Mongol with dark, hard eyes. “You are Dr. Wan?” he asked in a guttural baritone.

“I am,” Candron said. This was no place for traditional politeness. “Did not General Soong call you?”

“He did, indeed, doctor. But I assumed you would be carrying—” He gestured, as though not quite sure what to say.

Candron smiled blandly. “Ah. You were expecting the little black bag, is it not so? No, my good captain; I am a psychologist, not a medical doctor.”

The captain’s face cleared. “So. The persuasion is to be of the more subtle type.”

“Indeed. Only thus can we be assured of his co-operation. One cannot force the creative mind to create; it must be cajoled. Could one have forced the great K’ung Fu-tse to become a philosopher at the point of a sword?”

“It is so,” said the captain. “Will you permit me to search you?”

The affable Dr. Wan emptied his pockets, then permitted the search. The captain casually looked at the identification in the wallet. It was, naturally, in perfect order for Dr. Wan. The identification of Ying Lee had been destroyed hours ago, since it was of no further value.

“These things must be left here until you come out, doctor,” the captain said. “You may pick them up when you leave.” He gestured at the pack of cigarettes. “You will be given cigarettes by the interior guard. Such are my orders.”

“Very well,” Candron said calmly. “And now, may I see the patient?” He had wanted to keep those cigarettes.[26] Now he would have to find a substitute.

The captain unlocked the heavy door. At the far end, two more guards sat, complacently playing cards, while a third stood at a door a few yards away. A television screen imbedded in the door was connected to an interior camera which showed the room within.

The corridor door was closed and locked behind Candron as he walked toward the three interior guards. They were three more big, tough Mongols, all wearing the insignia of lieutenants. This was not a prisoner who could be entrusted to the care of common soldiers; the secret was too important to allow the hoi polloi in on it. They carried no weapons; the three of them could easily take care of Ch’ien if he tried anything foolish, and besides, it kept weapons out of Ch’ien’s reach. There were other methods of taking care of the prisoner if the guards were inadequate.

The two officers who were playing cards looked up, acknowledged Dr. Wan’s presence, and went back to their game. The third, after glancing at the screen, opened the door to James Ch’ien’s apartment. Spencer Candron stepped inside.

It was because of those few seconds—the time during which that door was open—that Candron had called the monitors who watched Ch’ien’s apartment. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have bothered. He needed fifteen seconds in which to act, and he couldn’t do it with that door open. If the monitors had given an alarm in these critical seconds…

But they hadn’t, and they wouldn’t. Not yet.

The man who was sitting in the easy-chair on the opposite side of the room looked up as Candron entered.

James Ch’ien (B.S., M.S., M.I.T., Ph. D., U.C.L.A.) was a young man, barely past thirty. His tanned face no longer wore the affable smile that Candron had seen in photographs, and the jet-black eyes beneath the well-formed brows were cold instead of friendly, but the intelligence behind the face still came through.

As the door was relocked behind him, Candron said, in Cantonese: “This unworthy one hopes that the excellent doctor is well. Permit me to introduce my unworthy self: I am Dr. Wan Feng.”

Dr. Ch’ien put the book he was reading in his lap. He looked at the ceiling in exasperation, then back at Candron. “All right,” he said in English, “so you don’t believe me. But I’ll repeat it again in the hope that I can get it through your skulls.” It was obvious that he was addressing, not only his visitor, but anyone else who might be listening.

“I do not speak Chinese,” he said, emphasizing each word separately. “I can say ‘Good morning’ and ‘Good-by’, and that’s about it. I do wish I could say ‘drop dead,’ but that’s a luxury I can’t indulge. If you can speak English, then go ahead; if not, quit wasting my time and yours. Not,” he added, “that it won’t be a waste of time anyway, but at least it will relieve the monotony.”

[27] Candron knew that Ch’ien was only partially telling the truth. The physicist spoke the language badly, but he understood it fairly well.

“Sorry, doctor,” Candron said in English, “I guess I forgot myself. I am Dr. Wan Feng.”

Ch’ien’s expression didn’t change, but he waved to a nearby chair. “Sit down, Dr. Feng, and tell me what propaganda line you’ve come to deliver now.”

Candron smiled and shook his head slowly. “That was unworthy of you, Dr. Ch’ien. Even though you have succumbed to the Western habit of putting the family name last, you are perfectly aware that ‘Wan,’ not ‘Feng,’ is my family name.”

The physicist didn’t turn a hair. “Force of habit, Dr. Wan. Or, rather, a little retaliation. I was called ‘Dakta Chamis’ for two days, and even those who could pronounce the name properly insisted on ‘Dr. James.’ But I forget myself. I am supposed to be the host here. Do sit down and tell me why I should give myself over to Communist China just because my grandfather was born here back in the days when China was a republic.”

Spencer Candron knew that time was running out, but he had to force Ch’ien into the right position before he could act. He wished again that he had been able to keep the cigarettes. Ch’ien was a moderately heavy smoker, and one of those drugged cigarettes would have come in handy now. As it was, he had to handle it differently. And that meant a different approach.

“No, Dr. Ch’ien,” he said, in a voice that was deliberately too smooth, “I will not sit down, thank you. I would prefer that you stand up.”

The physicist’s face became a frozen mask. “I see that the doctorate you claim is not for studies in the field of physics. You’re not here to worm things out of me by discussing my work talking shop. What is it, Doctor Wan?”

"I am a psychologist.” Candron said. He knew that the monitors watching the screens and listening to the conversation were recording everything. He knew that they shouldn't be suspicious yet. But if the real General Soong should decide to check on what his important guest was doing....

"A psychologist,” Ch'ien repeated in a monotone. “I see."

"Yes. Now, will you stand, or do I have to ask the guards to lift you to your feet?"

James Ch'ien recognized the inevitable, so he stood. But there was a wary expression in his black eyes. He was not a tall man; he stood nearly an inch shorter than Candron himself.

"You have nothing to fear, Dr. Ch'ien,” Candron said smoothly. “I merely wish to test a few of your reactions. We do not wish to hurt you.” He put his hands on the other man's shoulders, and positioned him. “There," he said. “Now. Look to the left."[28]

"Hypnosis, eh?” Ch'ien said with a grim smile. “All right. Go ahead.” He looked to his left.

"Not with your head,” Candron said calmly. “Face me and look to the left with your eyes."

Ch’ien did so, saying: “I’m afraid you’ll have to use drugs after all, Dr. Wan. I will not be hypnotized.”

“I have no intention of hypnotizing you. Now look to the right.”

Ch’ien obeyed.

Candron’s right hand was at his side, and his left hand was toying with a button on his coat. “Now up,” he said.

Dr. James Ch’ien rolled his eyeballs upward.

Candron had already taken a deep breath. Now he acted. His right hand balled into a fist and arced upwards in a crashing uppercut to Ch’ien’s jaw. At almost the same time, he jerked the button off his coat, cracked it with his fingers along the special fissure line, and threw it to the floor.

As the little bomb spewed forth unbelievable amounts of ultra-finely divided carbon in a dense black cloud of smoke, Candron threw both arms around the collapsing physicist, ignoring the pain in the knuckles of his right hand. The smoke cloud billowed around them, darkening the room and obscuring the view from the monitor screens that were watching them. Candron knew that the guards were acting now; he knew that the big Mongols outside were already inserting the key in the door and inserting their nose plugs; he knew that the men in the monitor room had hit an alarm button and had already begun to flood the room with sleep gas. But he paid no attention to these things.

Instead, he became homesick.

Home. It was a little place he knew and loved. He could no longer stand the alien environment around him; it was repugnant, repelling. All he could think of was a little room, a familiar room, a beloved room. He knew the cracks in its ceiling, the feel of the varnish on the homely little desk, the touch of the worn carpet against his feet, the very smell of the air itself. And he loved them and longed for them with all the emotional power that was in him.

And suddenly the darkness of the smoke-filled prison apartment was gone.

Spencer Candron stood in the middle of the little hotel room he had rented early that morning. In his arms, he held the unconscious figure of Dr. James Ch’ien.

He gasped for breath, then, with an effort, he stooped, allowed the limp body of the physicist to collapse over his shoulder, and stood straight again, carrying the man like a sack of potatoes. He went to the door of the room and opened it carefully. The hall was empty. Quickly, he moved outside, closing the door behind him, and headed toward the stair. This time, he dared not trust the elevator shaft. The hotel only boasted one elevator, and it might be used at any time. Instead, he allowed his dislike for the stair treads [29] to adjust his weight to a few pounds,