Death Ray (5 page)

Our first lesson at Mulberry was held in the dining room, converted to a makeshift classroom by adding a few desks and chairs. Entering with a large leather bag clutched close to his chest, Dr Milton Witherspoon proudly informed us that he was a lecturer in chemistry at Imperial College, London. He was six foot five, skinny as a rake, and wore circular, silver-framed spectacles. Carefully placing his bag on a table at the front of the room, he removed from it a series of glass bottles and jars and set them out neatly in a row. He then turned, grabbed a piece of chalk and scratched out a single word on the large blackboard screwed to the wall –
Invisibility
.

‘There are many ways of concealing messages,’ Witherspoon began. ‘Who can give me some examples?’

Max raised a hand. ‘Codes and ciphers,’ he suggested.

‘Yes,’ Witherspoon replied. ‘What else?’ He rubbed
out
the word he’d written on the blackboard and then pointed to the blank space. ‘A clue?’

‘Some sort of invisible writing?’ said Freya.

Witherspoon smiled. ‘Yes. Well done.’ He picked up one of his jars and examined it. It was empty. ‘I’d like a volunteer, please.’

Loki threw a hand up enthusiastically.

‘Ah, thank you. Mr Larson, isn’t it? So kind. Please take this jar outside and pee into it.’

‘
What?
’ Loki was shocked. For a split second I think he assumed he’d misheard and eagerly awaited confirmation of his error from Witherspoon’s lips. Unfortunately he was to be disappointed.

‘Pee into it. You don’t need to fill it up. Half will do. Less, if that’s all you can manage.’

I couldn’t help but snigger.

‘Mr … Gunnersen, I presume? Something amusing you?’ There was a stern frown on his brow.

‘No!’ I lied, struggling to keep a straight face.

‘Chop chop, Mr Larson, we haven’t got all day.’

Loki grabbed the jar and left the room, returning five minutes later. Somewhat embarrassed, he handed the jar to Witherspoon, who smiled again and thanked him profusely. ‘Excellent, nice and pale. Not too yellow. Now,’ he said, ‘all we need is paper and a suitable pen and nib.’ He reached into his bag and produced some paper and pens. Dipping a nib into the jar, he quickly removed it and began scratching out a message on a sheet of paper. ‘There!’ he declared. ‘Just let that dry a minute.’

He then held up the piece of paper in front of him. ‘Can anybody tell me what I’ve written? Come closer. Have a proper look.’

We got up and crowded round Witherspoon’s desk. I couldn’t read anything. The paper looked blank to me. Freya and Amélie reckoned they could see something but were unable to read it. Loki said nothing but remained red-faced.

‘Excellent!’ Witherspoon declared. ‘Someone fetch me that lamp over there, will you, and plug it in. Best if you remove the shade.’

Witherspoon allowed the naked bulb to heat up for a few minutes and then held the paper over the top of it. Slowly he moved it back and forth. We all watched closely. ‘Need to try and get an even heat,’ he informed us. ‘Gently does it.’ Slowly words began to form, faint brown words.

‘
You can
…’ Freya began reading aloud.

‘…
also use egg white or
…’ Max continued.

‘…
lemon juice
,’ I said, completing the sentence.

‘All of them work to a degree,’ Witherspoon explained, screwing up the page and lobbing it into a wastepaper basket at the back of the room. ‘You could even try
blood serum
if really desperate. Acceptable in an emergency. In my laboratory at the university I have been developing some rather more efficient secret inks.’

For the next half-hour he demonstrated with liquids which left no visible trace on drying but which, when exposed to heat or a spray of some sort, quickly revealed clear print. Others were only revealed under ultraviolet
light
, mercury vapour or ammonia fumes. ‘This is my finest to date,’ he declared, holding up a small bottle triumphantly. ‘Its beauty is that you can impregnate it into material – a sock for example. An agent can wear the sock into enemy territory, and when the ink is needed, simply take it off and place it in water to soak. Must say, I’m rather chuffed with that one. I’ll try and get some socks for you to try out in a week or two.’

Socks?
I looked at Loki and pulled a face.

‘Now, enough alchemy for one morning,’ said our teacher. ‘Supposing you don’t have access to secret inks, how else might you conceal a message?’

‘A book or newspaper, erm … words, erm …’ Amélie suggested. Waving her arms in frustration, she struggled to find the right English phrase. Failing to do so, she looked to Jacques and added, ‘
Souligner
.’

‘Ah,
oui
, Amélie. She means
underlining
the words,’ he said.

‘Yes. Excellent, Miss Lefebvre. But maybe a little too obvious,’ Witherspoon replied. ‘Remember, if a message is discovered in your possession it will land you in great trouble. It needs to be better hidden. Try using a pin to make tiny holes through each word or letter instead.’ He demonstrated with a piece of newspaper and the point of a safety pin. ‘See? Far less visible to the eye, unless—’ He held the page up to the light and we saw the little dots appear like stars on a clear night. ‘Now they’re visible.’

Witherspoon taught us to take great care about where we concealed messages on ourselves. Stitching
them
into the seams of clothing seemed an obvious idea. What I hadn’t considered, though, was the importance of using only clothing that can be readily discarded, like a scarf, rather than the hem of a dress or cuff of a shirt. ‘If you’re caught, you can hardly remove your shirt or trousers, can you?’ he pointed out. ‘It sounds obvious, but many agents have given themselves away by not taking such simple precautions.’

I made notes as Witherspoon proceeded to put all his jars and paraphernalia back into his bag. ‘Well, that’s all for now. I’ll be back in a few weeks, when I’ll explain how you can use a wonderful substance called carborundum to make a train or lorry quite literally grind to a halt. Simply splendid stuff, and very effective too. Cheerio, all!’

No sooner had Witherspoon departed than our next teacher arrived. Stanley Briggs was short, plump and completely bald. With a flourish he wrote the word
Disguises
on the blackboard. ‘Any suggestions?’

Loki called out, ‘Wig or false moustache.’

‘Like this perhaps?’ Briggs delved into his bag, produced a long blond hairpiece and placed it on his head. Flicking the fringe out of his eyes, he said, ‘Well?’

We all laughed. ‘You look ridiculous,’ said Freya.

‘Yes, I do, don’t I,’ he said. He tore off the wig. ‘
And
I’m a professional actor! You’re not. And yet’ – he paused, suddenly looking incredibly serious – ‘being able to quickly change the way you look might just save your lives. Suppose you are walking down a crowded
street
and you think you are being followed. What might you do? Certainly there’s no time to put on wigs and moustaches or apply make-up.’

‘Change our clothes in some way?’ Freya offered.

‘
Yes!
’ Briggs thrust up his hands in mock joy. ‘Well done, Miss Haukelid. Often the simplest things are the most effective. The tiniest changes to how you look may be enough to throw the enemy off your scent. Simply removing a raincoat or hat, taking or discarding an umbrella, combing one’s hair a different way – all have been known to work a treat.’ He stopped talking and surveyed the room. ‘Good, I think you are all keeping up with me. To summarize, be clever and quick thinking. Use your imagination. Use whatever is to hand.’

‘Like what?’ I asked.

‘Well, maybe you could seize a bicycle and push it along the pavement, or ride off on it. If a dog is tied up outside a shop, perhaps you could take it for a walk. Offer to carry an old lady’s shopping for her. Talk to her like she’s your grandmother. Confuse the enemy. Such techniques might save your skin. Be confident.
Be daring!
’

I scribbled a few notes. Meanwhile, Briggs turned and scratched the words
Body language
onto the blackboard. I wrote them down as well.

‘We’re all creatures of habit,’ he continued. ‘And the enemy knows it. They are trained to spot things, little details. For example, think about how you carry a newspaper – folded under your arm, or in your hand? Which arm or hand? Left or right? Set out to confuse the
enemy
. Be prepared to change the way you do it at a moment’s notice.’

While Jacques got Briggs to repeat most of what he’d just said for Amélie’s benefit – she looked completely lost – I wrote down
paper
and then added
slouching
and
hands in pockets
. I had a habit of keeping my hands stuffed in my pockets. It might make a difference, I supposed.

Briggs continued, ‘Now let’s examine the way we walk. You might be surprised to learn that we all do it differently. It can give you away, so try changing the way you swing your arms, or the way you throw each foot forward.’ He demonstrated for us. ‘Maybe hunch your shoulders a little.’ He stopped, put down his chalk and rubbed his hands together. ‘A very convincing limp can be achieved by placing a small stone in one’s shoe. Try it out.’ He leaned on his desk and peered at us. ‘Practise, practise, practise, practise, practise,’ he said, to each of us in turn. ‘And when you’re tired of it, practise some more. Make such things second nature, natural looking. But be careful not to exaggerate. They must be convincing yet not draw attention to you.’

We spent half an hour practising our different walks and nervous tics, and trying to do everything with the wrong hand. Briggs’s enthusiasm proved infectious. He seemed to know an awful lot about his subject. By the time he called us to order and got us sat back down I was beginning to wonder whether there was rather more to Stanley Briggs than met the eye. Was he simply
a
professional actor, or was he an experienced member of the secret services as well?

‘Of course, there may be a few situations where more drastic measures are needed,’ Briggs added. ‘Maybe you’re on a mission and a proper disguise is essential.’ He reached into his bag and took out some small sponges. He placed them in his mouth, pushing them into his cheeks. ‘See the difference? So much the better if you can get hold of some iodine. It can be used to discolour your teeth. You can also try darkening your hair with charcoal or lightening it with talcum powder or hair bleach.’ He walked to where Loki was sitting. ‘You, Mr Larson, have a pronounced chin cleft. That could be disguised with melted wax.’ Loki pulled a face, and then ran a finger along his chin. Briggs returned to the front of the class. ‘If you have wrinkles, accentuate them using the lead from soft black pencils. In minutes you’ll look five, maybe ten years older.’

There was a snort of derision from the back of the room. I turned and saw Amélie shaking her head. ‘Something wrong,
mademoiselle
?’ Briggs enquired, tutting and looking to the heavens as if her request for clarification or repetition were a wearisome inevitability.

She spoke slowly, stumbling slightly, but managed to get her point across. ‘If you get stopped, you have to give your papers to soldiers – yes? Big problem. You don’t look like your photograph. They will arrest you. Then they will take you away. In truck. You’ll never be seen again.’ She drew a finger across her throat. ‘
Mort et enterré!
’

We looked at Jacques. ‘She means you’ll be
dead and buried
,’ he said. ‘Amélie, you must try and stick to English. I know it’s hard but you really must try.’

‘Yes, well …’ Briggs balked uncomfortably. It was the first time I’d seen him look anything other than supremely confident. ‘You must choose your disguises carefully. And if at all possible, have false papers made,
including new photographs
.’ He glanced sharply at Amélie. ‘The art of evading capture is like a game of cat-and-mouse. What I’m teaching you may just give you the edge. But to be blunt, you are the mouse and sometimes the mouse gets caught!’

A bewildered Amélie leaned across to her brother and muttered, ‘
Chat et souris?
Did he say cat and mouse? Is he crazy?’ Jacques explained in French what Briggs had just said. ‘Oh!’ She nodded and pulled a face. ‘You are right!’

It was Jacques’ turn to speak up. Rocking back in his chair, he observed, ‘You’re both right, surely. If you can, it’s better to lie low. Don’t take risks unless you have no choice. If you can’t hide, if you have to escape, or think you’re being followed, head for somewhere crowded. Try to lose yourself. Move back and forth. Go in one door and leave by another. Walk quickly but calmly. Don’t keep looking over your shoulder. It is a real giveaway. Use your eyes. Use the reflections in shop windows.’

Loki pulled a face. He was probably thinking the same as I was. Our French colleagues had clearly already gained practical experience.

‘Yes, yes, good advice,’ said Briggs. ‘Thank you, Mr Lefebvre.’

Loki twisted round and said to Jacques, ‘And what if there isn’t a crowd?’

‘Run like hell!’

AFTER BRIGGS HAD
packed up and left, Loki and I wandered out through the front door of Mulberry House for a little fresh air, and spotted Jacques, sleeves rolled up, peering under the opened bonnet of a car. The soldier who’d driven us from the station the previous night was standing next to him, hands on hips, looking rather impatient. Seeing him in the daylight, I realized just how short he was and, although not exactly skinny, he struck me as quite wiry in a tough sort of way. He was also as ugly as sin, his nose bent from a break at some time in the past. It gave him a curiously unbalanced, lopsided appearance.

‘Hand me a screwdriver, Smithy,’ said Jacques, holding out a hand while still leaning over the engine.

Smithy obliged and then, seeing Loki and me, called out, ‘All right, lads? Jacques here’s a bloody marvel. He can fix anything with a motor in it.’