Free The Flood by John Creasey Page A

talking about some unexciting business project. “And we’re being forced to take chances we wouldn’t, in the normal course of events. For instance, in using men we know little about. Such as you.” Palfrey turned to glance at Andromovitch, and the Russian got up. Until that moment, Woburn had forgotten how enormous he was.
    “For some time now I have a special job, Woburn,” the giant said. “I investigate the past of – shall we say agents, Sap?” Woburn didn’t know what ‘Sap’ implied. “The modern word is screen, isn’t it? This afternoon I was given a rush job. I had to screen you. Tell me how far I am wrong.” He didn’t smile, but his expression was placid, his eyes had a serene look. “Born, 1921, of an English mother and a Scottish doctor. Educated at Shrewsbury School. War service, varied – Fleet Air Arm, transferred to the Airborne Division. Service in Burma and in Malaya. You put your engineering knowledge to good use and received the George Medal for dismantling a two-thousand-pound bomb which fell but did not explode in a London suburb where you were staying, just before the end of the war. For some years after the war you worked in the Birmingham factory of Mordant’s Limited, refrigeration engineering specialists, and for some five years you have been the Chicago representative of the company. You are” – Andromovitch used the pause almost as effectively as Palfrey – “unmarried. Your parents are both dead. You have no close relation, and you are not engaged to be married.” There was another pause, then: “Is that about right, Woburn?”
    “How the devil did you get all that in the time?”
    The giant shrugged. “Telephone calls, my friend. To Chicago, Birmingham, the War Office, the Admiralty. You would, I think, be given a clean bill for any usual purpose. And as Sap says, we cannot afford the time to take the best security measures.”
    Woburn said gruffly: “Oh, can’t you?”
    “Do not take umbrage,” said the giant, placidly. “In times past, we have always believed in screening our men for two years before asking them to join us. Now – you understand that you are in a very special position.”
    Woburn brushed his hand across his damp forehead, but didn’t speak.
    Palfrey said: “We think that you might be able to get away with a lot of things our agents couldn’t. You know Eve Davos, and she would have good reason to be grateful to you. You could take advantage of that to go to the Castle. We would brief you, of course, and your main job would be to find out anything you can about the octi or about any secret work that Davos is carrying on. You might find nothing, and you might find a great deal. You might even,” went on Palfrey almost casually, “get out alive.”
    Woburn looked from one man to another, as if he couldn’t make up his mind whether they were serious. In fact, Palfrey had summed it up concisely, even brutally. If he did what they asked, he ‘might’ get out alive.
    It would mean using Eve as the excuse for spying on her father.
    Woburn actually thought of that, without voicing the thought. He saw a mental picture of the girl – and of Jenny, and of all the village. He had known Eve Davos for little more than an hour. He owed her nothing. He owed his sister vengeance for a dead son. He had only to convince himself that he might be able to help, and he would do what these men asked.
    Who were they?
    Palfrey was playing with his hair again.
    “During the war,” he said unexpectedly, “the Allies formed an Allied Intelligence. They gave me the job of co-ordinating it. Since the war, the balance of power has shifted. Small states, some groups of individuals, even single persons working with loyal staff, could threaten the peace. We know all about the international cold war, we don’t know about the other cold war – not against groups of nations, but against individuals. There was one man who found a gas that could kill off the world in a