The Factory (11 page)

6

The Disgrace

Robert Dixon's had been a brilliant career. Brought up by a widowed mother, he'd left school as soon as he was able, when he was still under sixteen, to support the two of them on a railway clerk's wage. He joined a trade union because everyone did. And through the trade union became interested in politics. He was, of course, a socialist. It was local politics at first, the youngest town councillor at the age of nineteen, with no thoughts of anything higher. It soon became evident that he would go higher, however. He emerged as a skilful orator and debater, able to out-argue any opposition, which brought him to the quick notice of the local party officials. He was a superb organizer, instinctively knowing the secret of delegating responsibility, and within two years took from conservative to labour supremacy his party's control of the council. And he was universally liked, even by political opponents whom he defeated in public arguments. His selection as parliamentary socialist candidate in a general election seemed practically automatic when it happened, although it was recognized as a safe Conservative constituency, with no chance at all of Dixon winning. He did though, overwhelmingly, as did the socialist party of the country as a whole to take over the government of Britain for the first time in ten years. The career – and the fame – of Robert Dixon had begun to take off.

He became a junior Trade Minister within a year. Through his organizational ability – largely in private – and his debating ability in the House of Commons, he rose to become minister for the entire department. Throughout he earned ever-increasing and widespread support among his colleagues: six months before the next government election he was unanimously elected party leader. And won the election for the second time with the largest margin of votes in its history.

Dixon appeared to grow in stature and reputation as Prime Minister. Always, as he had at local level, he delegated, awarding someone a job or a position and then letting them get on with it without interference. It enabled him to devote himself to the big occasions, which meant dominating the world stage. As a socialist he was regarded warmly by Moscow and quickly became a conduit and sometimes a mediator between Russia and the United States. He became recognized as the leading statesman within the European Economic Community. He committed himself to achieving a lasting peace agreement between Arabs and Jews, and succeeded. It was Robert Dixon who hosted the international conference at which all countries of the world – including Latin America – finally agreed strict environmental rules to control and hopefully diminish the heating up of the global atmosphere to cause the Greenhouse Effect. Although he failed to win the Nobel Peace Prize, it was confidently expected that it would be awarded on a subsequent nomination.

So when the scandals broke, one after the other, they caused an international sensation.

The insider-trading revelation was the first. The exposé in one of Britain's most prestigious and respected Sunday newspapers was minutely detailed and supported by a variety of documents and photographs. The most damning was a photocopy of a letter signed by Dixon and written from the address of his privately owned home in Buckinghamshire. It was to a bank, asking them in turn to arrange on his behalf for a firm of City stockbrokers to buy on the London and New York stock exchanges at £2 each ten thousand shares of an internationally quoted company three days before a new Rights issue. The £2 shares jumped to £5.50 a share, giving Dixon a profit of £35,000. The newspaper story reminded its readers that Dixon had begun his political life in the Trade Ministry, that the ministry was aware in advance of the new capital-raising shares issue and that two of the directors of the company were friends of Dixon.

There were denials from Dixon that he'd made the purchase application and from the two directors that they'd ever discussed the matter with the Prime Minister, but the evidence was crushing. Dixon called a press conference the day after the story's appearance to repeat his denials, and the two friendly directors issued separate denials. None was believed.

Certainly not after the following weekend. The Sunday newspaper which had made the first revelation devoted practically its entire front page to Robert Dixon's secret, numbered Swiss bank account in Zurich, this time with photostats of a statement showing a credit balance of £750,000 and another of a letter requesting the opening of the account signed in Dixon's recognizable signature. An additional withdrawal insistence was that the bank teller recognize Dixon from a supplied photograph, which was reproduced in the newspaper. It was of Robert Dixon.

On the Monday, Samuel Bell summoned John Walker to his top-floor office at the Factory.

‘What do you think?' demanded Bell. He'd gone without a drink all of the previous night and was proud of himself, although he had a bad headache.

‘I think our much-admired Prime Minister and international statesman is a crook who's been caught out,' judged Walker at once. He was a dark-haired, saturnine cynic of a man: denied confirming evidence, he always thought the worst rather than the best of anyone.

‘Don't you think that's what you're expected to do?'

‘A plot, you mean?'

‘Isn't it all a bit too neat and convincing?' suggested Bell. ‘Let's take a look. He's either a crook. Or the victim of some foreign intelligence service. Let's find out which.'

‘The civilian police will be investigating,' insisted Walker.

‘Don't get in their way,' said the Director General. ‘And do better than they do.' Often he was more cynical than Walker.

‘I don't know anything about it! Nothing at all!' insisted Dixon. They were in the first-floor study at Downing Street, the Prime Minister's official residence. Dixon was baggy-eyed from tiredness and worry and was carelessly shaved, a razor-nick red against his cheek. The suit was neat and he wore a fresh shirt but he slumped in his seat, creasing everything.

‘I saw you say that on television,' said Walker.

‘And from the tone of your voice didn't believe my denial!'

‘I don't know enough to believe or disbelieve,' avoided Walker.

‘It's an attempt to discredit me.'

‘By whom?' demanded Walker. ‘You're respected and admired everywhere. A phenomenon, a politician and statesman universally liked.'

‘I don't know who's done it,' said Dixon in empty argument. ‘There have already been resignation suggestions.'

‘Are you going to resign?'

‘Like hell!' exclaimed Dixon. ‘I've done nothing to resign over. Isn't that what your Director General thinks too, by sending you here?'

‘He wants me to investigate,' said Walker, once more avoiding a direct answer. ‘I'll need to approach the banks here and in Zurich. And guarantee police cooperation. I shall need your written authority, for access.'

‘Of course,' agreed the Prime Minister at once.

Half an hour later Walker left the Prime Minister's residence by its rear entrance, with the requested written authority. In total Robert Dixon had assigned his signature three times. With the unquestioned authority, Walker got from the police the original of the letter to the English bank in which Dixon asked them to negotiate the shares purchase through stockbrokers. By late afternoon Walker submitted the bank letter, together with one of his signed authority documents, to the Technical and Scientific Division of the Factory. He did not expect a reply to his inquiry that day but it came after just two hours. There was no doubt whatsoever among any of the handwriting experts. The signature on the letter seeking the share purchase and that on the authority document which Walker had personally seen Robert Dixon sign that day were undeniably written by the same man. They were prepared to swear it on oath.

There had been no leakages or mistakes for weeks, months even, to indicate a Soviet informant in the Factory, and the Director General ended each trouble-free day with a heartfelt sigh of relief. And usually with the first of several celebratory whiskies: sometimes, towards the hazy end of an evening, Bell half convinced himself that the department hadn't been infiltrated by a traitor after all: that he'd misconstrued a series of coincidences into something far more sinister. The attempted reassurance rarely lasted long into the painful following morning. The respite from one problem allowed him to concentrate upon another. Ann Perkins had been right about his drinking. It was ridiculous: stupidly unnecessary. Not that he needed anything as extreme as to dry out at an alcoholic centre or help from Alcoholics Anonymous: just a rest. That's what he'd do. Take a couple of weeks off and enter a clinic or a health farm somewhere. And stop drinking. Just rest. He was strong enough to do it by himself. Of course he was.

The manager was named Gerald Birchett and he was the sort of stone-faced, unsympathetic bank official who took personal pleasure lecturing customers on economy and refusing loans or overdrafts. Walker, who ran a large overdraft, disliked the man instinctively. Birchett studied the Prime Ministerial authority closely and then said with obvious reluctance: ‘It would seem I have to cooperate.'

‘Very much so,' insisted Walker.

Birchett said there had been an intensive internal inquiry at the bank which had failed to find the person who'd passed on the photocopied shares letter to the newspaper. He provided a long list of people who could have had access to the letter at the bank, and agreed there might be more who overheard him discussing the application with bank officials who had to deal with it.

‘I don't believe anyone at this bank supplied the letter to the newspaper!' said Birchett indignantly.

‘Somebody did,' reminded Walker. ‘How long has the Prime Minister banked here?'

‘More than ten years: before I was appointed manager.'

‘Where are his files kept? Where would the letter have been?'

‘Here in this office,' said Birchett at once. ‘Everything is kept in my personal safe.'

‘I'd like to see it.'

‘I really don't think …' the manager started to protest, but Walker took Dixon's authority from his pocket, offering it to Birchett a second time.

Clearly annoyed, the man operated the safe combination and took a bulky dossier from a specially set-aside drawer. Walker started to flick idly through the correspondence file, not sure what he was seeking, and then stopped. He looked up at the manager and said: ‘What's this?'

Birchett looked over Walker's shoulder. ‘My initials, G.S. for Gerald Birchett. It's a personal record system I operate. As soon as I receive a letter, particularly from someone as important as the Prime Minister, I initial it to indicate I have read and responded to it.'

‘How soon would you have written your initials on the letter about the share application?'

‘Immediately it arrived,' said Birchett.

Walker smiled. ‘I think we're making progress,' he said.

The financial journalist who had written both Sunday newspaper stories clearly thought he'd obtained the scoop of the year if not the decade, and was proud of it. His name was Terry Sergeant. He was balding and bespectacled, and immediately Walker entered his office the man said: ‘I checked each fact at least half a dozen times. I know the documentation is genuine. Dixon did it!'

‘How did you get the photostats?' demanded Walker, unimpressed.

‘By mail, every time.'

‘There would have been a postmark on the envelope?'

‘Central London,' confirmed Sergeant at once. ‘Like I said, I checked everything.'

‘The Swiss bank statement was posted in Central London!'

‘Yes.'

‘Didn't that strike you as unusual?'

‘Not particularly. The warnings were always local calls.'

‘What are you talking about?'

‘There were always telephone calls, telling me I was going to receive something sensational.'

‘Did they say what it was to be?'

Sergeant shook his head. ‘Just that it was sensational: that was the word, on both occasions.'

‘Who was the caller? Male or female?'

‘Female.'

‘Did you tape record the conversations?'

Sergeant snorted a laugh. ‘I wasn't expecting the first, was I? And I certainly didn't imagine there'd be a second.'

‘Any accent?'

‘English. Well educated.'

‘Did you ask why she was doing it?'

‘On the second call. She said Dixon was a greedy crook and should be exposed.'

‘How did she get hold of the letter and the bank statement?'

‘She wouldn't tell me. Then the time ran out on the call – that's how I know it was made locally – and she refused to put any more money in.'

‘What about background noise, from wherever she was calling from?' pressed Walker.

‘Traffic,' said the journalist. ‘Once I thought I heard a hooter, the sort of thing that ships have, but I'm not sure.'

When Walker made the request for both photocopies he had received Sergeant said: ‘There were no fingerprints, apart from my own. The police checked.'

‘I just want copies of my own,' said Walker.

When Sergeant handed them to him, Walker smiled. The journalist said: ‘What is it?'

‘Nothing,' refused Walker.

Samuel Bell found it far more difficult than he'd imagined, which worried him because it meant he was more dependent on booze than he'd thought himself to be, but he forced the willpower and went without a drink for four days at the health farm. On the fifth he found the craving lessening and knew he was winning the battle. He still felt terrible, physically sick, and the shake in his hands seemed to have worsened.

Only Ann knew where he was. The Director General guessed at once there was a crisis when she arrived at the health farm that afternoon. The attack upon the department courier carrying through Istanbul information identifying at least three of their agents in the Kazakhstan republic of the Soviet Union had been made to look like a street attack, a mugging, but it had obviously been KGB-inspired. All that had been taken from the man was the pouch containing the intelligence material. The courier was not expected to live. The decision to dispatch the man to Istanbul had only been taken on the morning of the attack, so the leak had to have come from London.