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The Enemy
Desmond Bagley
Action thriller by the classic adventure writer set in Sweden.Wealthy, respectable George Ashton flees for his life after an acid attack on his daughter. Who is his enemy? Only Malcolm Jaggard, his future son-in-law, can guess, after seeing Ashton’s top secret government file. In a desperate manhunt, Jaggard pits himself against the KGB and stalks Ashton to the silent, wintry forests of Sweden. But his search for the enemy has barely begun…
DESMOND BAGLEY
The Enemy
COPYRIGHT (#ulink_70fe67e0-0f6a-596d-8a91-9fbec05292cd)
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by Collins 1977
Copyright © Brockhurst Publications 1977
Cover layout design Richard Augustus © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017
Desmond Bagley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks
Source ISBN: 9780008211295
Ebook Edition © JULY 2017 ISBN: 9780008211301
Version: 2018-02-16
CONTENTS
Cover (#ud6795be1-0fd1-54f3-a99a-698fcc1ec63e)
Title Page (#ud3908dc4-0911-5919-a641-fcef9b5a66f9)
Copyright (#uab42df0d-b993-5392-988c-b5531a5e98d0)
The Enemy (#u0ea51ff0-f8e0-57d8-9c79-37cdc1f96ddf)
Dedication (#u2e75d566-9635-5dcb-83f5-732aac0206b2)
One (#uc3e6a59d-5865-5a69-8e67-e79aa312aa5b)
Two (#ub31b7ab5-15ed-50ac-b45e-3994f7110824)
Three (#u32a09b86-41b8-5b2c-a8b9-2498cd468ed5)
Four (#ud292e9b7-f1e4-5bde-b6be-13835dca4955)
Five (#ue66a8c21-a819-5c41-bed5-2d493be27f29)
Six (#ue58d725a-b73e-5f15-9736-81d887d768c3)
Seven (#u65db97aa-27ae-5e0a-8aff-47ae73f33473)
Eight (#u0c550a3c-ddf2-5e35-b2b2-3b4b15d578df)
Nine (#uc0ccad2a-b0b6-56ca-a850-b50d5ee6df48)
Ten (#u900a05f6-e6ad-5789-843a-a89b44053bd6)
Eleven (#u8693ebf3-3f8a-5677-8bd5-60c73645b48a)
Twelve (#ufdbd9527-0e36-59d4-8461-dc3cbcaacebe)
Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Forty (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
By the Same Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
THE ENEMY (#ulink_b14c6d78-58e2-5fed-93d3-8684960c673c)
DEDICATION (#ulink_09011f78-2e12-5c25-b4d2-a318d91cb5ef)
To all the DASTards
especially
Iwan and Inga
Jan and Anita
Hemming and Annette
ONE (#ulink_7c445a7a-6a8d-54c9-a65a-f43a05788cc4)
I met Penelope Ashton at a party thrown by Tom Packer. That may be a bit misleading because it wasn’t the kind of party that gets thrown very far; no spiked punch or pot, and no wife-swapping or indiscriminate necking in the bedrooms at two in the morning. Just a few people who got together over a civilized dinner with a fair amount of laughter and a hell of a lot of talk. But it did tend to go on and what with Tom’s liberal hand with his after-dinner scotches I didn’t feel up to driving, so when I left I took a taxi.
Penny Ashton came with Dinah and Mike Huxham; Dinah was Tom’s sister. I still haven’t worked out whether I was invited as a makeweight for the odd girl or whether she was brought to counterbalance me. At any rate when we sat at table the sexes were even and I was sitting next to her. She was a tall, dark woman, quiet and composed in manner and not very forthcoming. She was no raving beauty, but few women are; Helen of Troy may have launched a thousand ships but no one was going to push the boat out for Penny Ashton, at least not at first sight. Not that she was ugly or anything like that. She had a reasonably good figure and a reasonably good face, and she dressed well. I think the word to describe her would be average. I put her age at about twenty-seven and I wasn’t far out. She was twenty-eight.
As was usual with Tom’s friends, the talk ranged far and wide; Tom was a rising star in the upper reaches of the medical establishment and he was eclectic in his choice of dining companions and so the talk was good. Penny joined in but she tended to listen rather than talk and her interjections were infrequent. Gradually I became aware that when she did speak her comments were acute, and there was a sardonic cast to her eye when she was listening to something she didn’t agree with. I found her spikiness of mind very agreeable.
After dinner the talk went on in the living-room over coffee and brandy. I opted for scotch because brandy doesn’t agree with me, a circumstance Tom knew very well because he poured one of his measures big enough to paralyse an elephant and left the jug of iced water convenient to my elbow.
As is common on these occasions, while the dinner-table conversation is general and involves everybody, after dinner the party tended to split into small groups, each pursuing their congenial arguments and riding their hobby-horses hard and on a loose rein. To my mild surprise I found myself opting for a group of two – myself and Penny Ashton. I suppose there were a dozen of us there, but I settled in a corner and monopolized Penny Ashton. Or did she monopolize me? It could have been six of one and half-a-dozen of the other; it usually is in cases like that.
I forget what we talked about at first but gradually our conversation became more personal. I discovered she was a research biologist specializing in genetics and that she worked with Professor Lumsden at University College, London. Genetics is the hottest and most controversial subject in science today and Lumsden was in the forefront of the battle. Anyone working with him would have to be very bright indeed and I was suitably impressed. There was a lot more to Penny Ashton than met the casual eye.
Some time during the evening she asked, ‘And what do you do?’
‘Oh, I’m someone in the City,’ I said lightly.
She got that sardonic look in her eye and said reprovingly, ‘Satire doesn’t become you.’
‘It’s true!’ I protested. ‘Someone’s got to make the wheels of commerce turn.’ She didn’t pursue the subject.
Inevitably someone checked his watch and discovered with horror the lateness of the hour, and the party began to break up. Usually the more congenial the party the later the hour, and it was pretty late. Penny said, ‘My God – my train!’
‘Which station?’
‘Victoria.’
‘I’ll drop you,’ I said and stood up, swaying slightly as I felt Tom’s scotch. ‘From a taxi.’
I borrowed the telephone and rang for a taxi, and then we stood around making party noises until it arrived. As we were driven through the brightly-lit London streets I reflected that it had been a good evening; it had been quite a while since I’d felt so good. And it wasn’t because of the quality of Tom’s booze, either.
I turned to Penny. ‘Known the Packers long?’
‘A few years. I was at Cambridge with Dinah Huxham – Dinah Packer she was then.’
‘Nice people. It’s been a good evening.’
‘I enjoyed it.’
I said, ‘How about repeating it – just the two of us? Say, the theatre and supper afterward.’
She was silent for a moment, then said, ‘All right.’ So we fixed a time for the following Wednesday and I felt even better.
She wouldn’t let me come into the station with her so I kept the taxi and redirected it to my flat. It was only then I realized I didn’t know if she was married or not, and I tried to remember the fingers of her left hand. Then I thought I was a damned fool; I hardly knew the woman so what did it matter if she was married or not? I wasn’t going to marry her myself, was I?
On the Wednesday I picked her up at University College at seven-fifteen in the evening and we had a drink in a pub near the theatre before seeing the show. I don’t like theatre crush bars; they’re too well named. ‘Do you always work as late as this?’ I asked.
She shook her head. ‘It varies. It’s not a nine-to-five job, you know. When we’re doing something big we could be there all night, but that doesn’t happen often. I laboured tonight because I was staying in town.’ She smiled. ‘It helped me catch up on some of the paperwork.’
‘Ah; the paperwork is always with us.’
‘You ought to know; your job is all paperwork, isn’t it?’
