Authors: John Macrae
"Oh, wait. The best is yet to come. I said he was a double.
Well, he's not just a lapsed SIS agent gone over to being an ex-CIA tout; their blue eyed-boy to run Britain, before he bought up half of California and decided to become a US citizen. He's also the Kremlin's front man, too!"
"The Russians? I can't believe it."
"It's true. I told you that
he had big Russian connections.
He's run by, if that's the right word for it now, by one Colonel Andrei Fedorchuk, the Russians
’
main legal resident in London and Dublin. They've been grooming Roberts for the last three years as
their
candidate - one day - for some big office. Probably Secretary General of the United Nations, or the World Bank, I shouldn't wonder. The perfect front man."
"How on earth did
he get involved
with the Russians?" I asked.
"Business. Oh, that's not hard. Not since the Soviet Union collapsed. He did it by buying off most of the
Russian political establishment
, especially the ex-
KGB guy
s
who went into politics, and then financing every crooked
deal they get up to in Moscow.
He's the bastard
that's
siphoned
off most of the In
t
ernational Monetary
Fund cash to the Russian Mafia bosses. Almost every major company in the new Russia is now owned or run by
GH
i
or one of its associates. Ironic, isn't it? He's effectively bought Russia. Including most of the Duma and the Kremlin as well. I’m not sure if they’re running him or he’s running them."
I thought that I was beyond surprise in the business, but this revelation shook me rigid. I tried to comprehend the complications. "I can't believe it. It's incredible." A thought struck me. "Do they know? I mean, do the Yanks know that Roberts is stringing for Moscow?"
Mallalieu smiled. "That's a nice question. We don't know. We don't think so. But we do know that the Americans are really pissed off that GHi Corp has so much influence in Russia."
"Why are
they
so pissed off?"
"Because GHi moved quicker than Langley. The CIA and State Department had the same idea, but they couldn't move as fast as organised crime. Nothing beats the free market..."
"Do they know all this?
"I don't know," mused Mallalieu. "But they will soon. Once Roberts is killed."
"And the Russians? Do they know that Roberts is - well - with the Yanks?"
"We don't know that for certain, either. We think that he's still playing for them both. And trying to control crime in both countries. It's classic play: both ends against the middle stuff, and he probably thinks he's too big to get hammered. So that's why WE are going to take his piece off the board. And both the Russians and the Cousins are going to think that the other party's hacked their boy."
I was silent, contemplating the magnitude of duplicity that must lie behind Roberts' activities. The international criminal dimension paled into insignificance alongside these latest revelations. But no doubt about it: Roberts must be smart to keep all theses bal
ls in the air so successfully.
And profitably too. He must have a mind like a gyroscopic computer.
"Put it like this," said Mallalieu. "If the Russkis thought that they were being doubled, they'd drop him. Right? Dead in his tracks."
"Probably literally. And so would the Yanks."
"Exactly. Neither side could allow a man of that stature to play for the other's team - if they knew. You’ve got to remember this man is bigger, richer than most countries. And the organisation he fronts is certainly bigger. It’s got to be broken. Who knows what his real loyalties are? But I co
uld take a pretty good guess.” M
allalieu heaved his shoulders in a dismissi
ve, almost Gallic, gesture. "
So there we are. It's neat, isn't it? And remember, once he's gone, there's no-one else in capable of putting together what Roberts has achieved. Not for some time, anyway. He's the only really mega-big fish: without him the Organization will probably split into its various pieces."
I drained my glass and thought furiously. An image of Lord Roberts' smooth, plausible face endlessly mouthing sound bites of platitudinous telly-speak rose in my mind. I could hear him now: "The problem is one of world crime," he'd said on TV a few nights ago. "If only all the nations of the world would
work together, these dreadful things wouldn't happen." I began to warm to my task, particularly now I knew who it was. A thought struck me.
"How do
we
know, if the Russians and the Yanks haven’t sussed him out two-timing them? How good's your information?" I didn't really think that Mallalieu was setting me up, but I'd have been naïve not to check. And even more naïve to uncritically believe Mallalieu's answer.
"Excellent. It's A-1; confirmed by impeccable sources. It's true all right, don't worry about that." He tapped his nose. “Let’s just say that Six and Five have for once got their act together.”
"Well, why our Firm? Why don’t they do it? Why now?"
"I can't tell you that sort of detail, because even I don't know. The liaison people don't tell me everything either. But I do know that HMG must be seen to have clean hands – officially. And I can assure you that the information is recent and all one hundred percent accurate. And the word from the top is it's urgent."
"From the top?"
"That's right." He pointed at the ceiling. "From the very top."
I thought he was overplaying it: but Tom Mallalieu didn't overplay things. I nodded and took a deep breath. "Right. Seems clear enough. So how and when, Colonel ?"
"Ah, well, there's a twist." I had suspected there might be. "You see, they want everyone to get the blame except us."
I looked askance.
"They - Whitehall - want the US to think it is the
Russians,
and the Russians to think it is the
Americans
. Certainly at the start. And when both sides tumble to it, we want them both to realise that it’s us, the Brits, saying, 'don't meddle in things that don't concern you: we're still the biggest player on our own turf. He was once one of ours. So we’ve sorted him.’ But Roberts has got to go - and seen to go as messily as possible - by all sides. Someone’s got to cut the head off the beast. And we’re the ones to do it."
I tried to see the ramifications. It looked peculiar, but no more so than lots of deals in this business. Mallalieu probably wasn't telling me everything; but then, why should he? 'Need to know' is a principle I respect and admire. But one thing puzzled me still. "Why doesn’t some silly bugger just plant a bomb in his car? Another terrorist atrocity? That would work.
And people
’
d believe it?”
He shook his head. “Security’s too good. This guy has bought in the best personal security in the world.”
“Not from us, he hasn’t.”
“Well, actually….” For the first time, Mallalieu looked embarrassed. “
Let’s just say w
e have unwittingly made him a more difficult target.”
I sipped the Armagnac. “Anyway, why won't you use the Bull Pen? What's wrong with them?"
He dropped his eyes and fiddled with his glass. "Ah, yes, well ..." He drank, buying time.
"Don't you trust them? It's much more in their line, this hard man stuff."
His eyes met mine. "Let's just say I trust you more." His face was hard and his gaze flinty. "There are one or two things that we've got to sort out in the Bull Pen before dishing out jobs like this. Let's leave it at that, shall we?"
"OK." I shrugged. "But I'll need to know some details. Like how and when." I smiled. "And do I get a bonus?" He didn't laugh.
“When is soon. I'll let you know. And
how
... well, that's with something rather special. That's why I picked you." I took it as a compliment.
I pressed him further, but he wasn't going to be drawn. Now that he'd fleshed out the job, a reaction had set in, and he looked older and tireder, the mobile face thin and drawn. He looked his age. He countered all my questions by saying that he'd brief me in detail within a few days, and began to yawn.
"Fine," I said finally. "But I do have one pretty important question, and I'd like an answer before I go."
"Go on." He glanced at his watch.
"What's my cover? Do I have protection?"
He rubbed his eyes and dabbed the rim of his glass. "You do and you don't," he said eventually.
My ears pricked up. I don't like answers like that. "Oh? How?"
"If you're implicated, you're on your own. I'd advise Creggan Rules
[5]
and run like hell. Call in from Rio, anywhere, but don't expect a prodigal son reaction. But no-one except you and I knows it's you, so the operation should be cast iron secure."
I'd heard that one before, and I didn't like
the '
should
be secure'
; but I didn't know enough about the op to criticize, yet. But I trusted Mallalieu as far as I trust anyone. I resolved to make my own judgement about security later, when I knew a little more.
"Now," said Mallalieu, in a brisk change of mood, "Let's not talk about this any more. We can do that later." He stretched hugely and scratched himself. "Let's finish off this Armagnac." And that was that. He refused to be drawn on the subject again, or indeed, anything controversial, as we took the last two glassfuls of spirit.
As I left, he put his hand on my arm, holding the front door ajar. The cold night air spilled in, welcome as a draught of cool well water. "I don't have to talk security to you. And I don't have to remind you to keep your mouth shut." He stressed the 'you'. "But this one's a very hot potato." I nodded. "That's why I'm giving it to you. You're the only one I can trust to do a thing like this. It's you
, not people like Jonno Briggs.
Do you
understand? "
I agreed. Briggs was a pratt. It was late and the
A
rmagnac was warm in my stomach. He looked relieved
and patted my ar
m
.
"I knew I'd made the right choice."
My head buzzed with the drink and the night air, as I wandered out to the cab he'd called. Somewhere, faintly, a clock struck one o'clock.
Back at the flat, I splashed water on my face and collapsed onto the bed, to fall into a heavy doze, haunted by blood-red nameless things, interspersed
with S
p
icer's
silver-cold mummy and Harry Plummer's serious, flat eyes staring at me. Varley screamed at the poker waggling in his chest, and a running mugger collapsed, shot through the spine. Mortar bombs fountained silently up in the dust, and a crimson explosion of blood cascaded down again and again onto the sand of the square at Hasak. I woke, sweating and dry-mouthed, at four o'clock and staggered to the bathroom. While my heart hammered down to its normal speed, I gulped a pint of cold water, before going back to a sound sleep until the alarm woke me at half-past six.
I had lots to think about on my run that morning. And my head hurt.
THE ARMS OF VENUS, Warminster
Fortunately my hangover was not tested that morning.
Mallalieu didn't send for me early. That meant I spent an irritating morning sorting out a series of leaks that could only have come from some loud-mouth in the Bull Pen. Apparently Harry Plummer had called by and told Mallalieu and Andy Hawkesville that he had
received reports from both the Box and the Branch indicating trouble. The SB reported that a report
e
r
from one of the national dailies was investigating Jonno Briggs and his new employers; there were even hints that Briggs had been not merely indiscreet, but positively stupid in shooting his mouth off. I discussed the matter with Mallalieu later and decided, with a certain grim satisfaction, that we had had better do something fast before the company featured as the latest bogeymen in some press exposé.
When I went in to see Mallalieu after lunch, he was his usual urbane self. Looking at that polished charm, it was difficult to reconcile it with the man ordering a killing the previous night. I thought wryly that maybe Mafia trigger men feel the same way about the Don. Pushing such thoughts away, I went in hard about the deterioration in the Bull Pen. To my surprise, he waved it away, agreeing almost out of hand.
"Don't worry about that. I'll fix that with Andy. It's all going to be taken care of." He steepled his fingers and glanced down at a number on his note pad. "How soon can you go down to Warminster?"
"Warminster?" I thought furiously but made little sense. "Tomorrow, I suppose."
"Good." He tore the top sheet off the pad. "Call this chap and make the arrangements. He's expecting a Captain Brian Willis of the Parachute Regiment to go on the range with him sometime this week."
I was bewildered. "Who is Brian Willis?"
"You are," he beamed back. "You're a captain in the Parachute Regiment - TA - and you're going to help out the Infantry Trials and Development wing at Warminster for a
practi
s
e
shoot." I must have looked sceptical. "Don't worry. He's in the Army List if anyone asks or looks. You're part of the pool of Reservist Special Duty Officers." He winked. "I think that you're the third man to have been Brian Willis in one form or another."
"What do I do?"
Mallalieu got up and walked to the security container in the corner, and took out a large black brief case and a brown envelope. He slit the envelope open with his thumb and glanced inside, then spilled some documents onto a side table prodding them with an almond-shaped finger nail. "ID card, Parachute Regiment Association membership card, travel warrant for Westbury, Services' Rail card, bank card, Access card
for car hire
," he rattled off. "OK, sign here."
I ticked them of the check sheet and scribbled a signature. "Who makes this stuff for you?" My own face stared up from the MOD ID card. "It looks good."
Mallalieu laughed. "It should do. It's genuine." He took the briefcase and swung it heavily onto the table. "Now this bit is important, so pay attention." I must have looked askance, beca
use he added, "What I mean is,
" he snapped the locks,
"
This
is
important."
The case swung open to reveal a dull blue-black, futuristic-looking sub-machine gun, with a square, flattened body and a round second barrel mounted on top. He lifted it out carefully. It was only about eighteen inches long. I noticed that the business end had several small muzzle holes.
"What the hell is that?"
Mallalieu smiled. "Don't you recognise it?" He handed it to me. "It's all right - it's clear." I took it and examined it careful
ly; it was surprisingly heavy.
The second barrel on
top was
some kind of sighting device. There were no
m
arks or identifying numbers at all. Something stirred in my memory and I looked at the calibre. Those muzzle holes couldn't have been more than a .22 ... "My God! Is it a
Venus
?"
"That's right." He smiled with satisfaction. "Trust you to spot it. Well done."
I re-inspected the blued beast closely, searching my memory for details of a mystery weapon that the CIA were supposed to have invented in the late sixties and had never publicly admitted. The only thing I could remember was that it was a rotating, hand held six
barrel
miniature
Gatling
gun with a fantastic rate of fire, and some ex-CIA mechanic called Gonzales had spilled the beans in a Playboy article. Shortly afterwards he'd had a fatal heart attack, which was convenient for the CIA, if not for Mr Gonzales. The Venus didn't appear in any handbook on weapons. Gonzales' article had talked about putting Russian greatcoats on sheep and then shooting them. They'd blown apart under the impact, I recalled.
"Let me put you out of your misery." He pulled out an extending shoulder stock and cocked the action to clear it. "This is a six-barrelled, multiple feed, .22 Long SMG. It has two magazines of one hundred rounds in tandem here," he pointed to the mag openings, "And a flash suppressor here. It shoots the two magazines in 1.2 seconds." I raised my eyebrows.
"This device here," and he indicated the torch-1ike tube bracketed above the weapon, "Is a Laser-Lok sight. It'll project a 12 inch red dot at 100 yards either on bright for day, or half-bright for night." He busily clicked the control switch on and off, as proud as a child with a new toy. "This gun is the perfect close range killing weapon. Here ... "
He handed it back to me and I cocked it, checking the action. 'Don't let the barrels spin without rounds in," he cautioned, hastily. "The tolerances are very tight."
I examined the gun more closely. Through the open magazine housings the bolt face and barrel turning grooves gleamed silver, exquisitely machined. There was a curious opening at the front, a kind of tube below the barrel. "It's for the battery pack," he explained. It needs an electric drive."
"Colonel, where did you get this?"
Mallalieu grinned like a naughty schoolboy and took the Venus back carefully, letting the cocking handle forward under control, holding the trigger. The barrels rotated once with a purring noise and locked back into place with a crisp 'clunk'. "Ah, well, now there's a tale. Let's just say it's a beautiful bit of reverse engineering."
"Reverse engineering? What the hell's that?"
He laughed. "It's the latest American euphemism for copying."
"But surely it's an American design?"
"So it is; and they're weren’t giving the drawings away free, I can tell you." He laid the gun carefully back against the hard black rubber shape in the brief case. It nestled among the straight magazines and spare battery pack. "No, this is a superb piece of precision gun-making. The Americans brought one over to Hereford for an SAS demo last year. While it was on the range, DSTI managed to get some photos of it stripped down, and a few wax impressions of the key parts. It was a delicate operation. Then they set a gunsmith and a REME artificer to work. It took them four months to build this one, but it works, and it's perfect."
I looked at the weapon with renewed interest. Mallalieu went to the cupboard and came back with a yellow Kodak 10" by 8" photographic paper box. Inside were boxes of .22 long cartridges. He put it in the briefcase and closed the lid.
"Of course, it's got limitations," he continued. "It'll fire so fast that you'll
have
difficulty
in getting two bursts out of your two magazines. Theoretically its rate of fire is 5000 rounds a minute and the shot dispersion makes it more of an area weapon at anything over 100 yards. The other thing you must do is to
bore sight
the laser sight. But properly zeroed and in the right hands, it's unbelievable." He picked up the case and handed it to me. "So here you are. Don't lose it."
I took the case, "No signature?"
Mallalieu shook his head. "No signature," he echoed. "Just don't lose it."
"What's the deal at Warminster?"
"Right: you report to 'P' range - that's the new Close Quarter Battle range - at 1400 tomorrow afternoon. The Infantry Trials and Development Unit will be having a CQB trial shoot. By 1300 the whole thing will be over and they'll have pushed off for lunch. You'll be late; they're expecting you late morning, by the way. If you roll up at two, apologise for being late, and then just proof fire the gun, you'll be OK. The CO of ITDU has been asked to leave an NCO at the range for you. It'll be a QMSI Dawlish of the Small Arms School. He knows about the gun, but thinks that it's an SAS trial. No-one else knows. He won't watch - he'll just work the range for you. When you've finished, clear up and come home. Q Dawlish will say you've gone straight back. Got that?"
I turned it over. It sounded clean. "I'll need a location or a map. "
"Here." He pulled a neatly folded General Staff map out of the drawer. It was overprinted
'Warminster Ranges - Danger Areas'
in bold purple. I noticed with amusement that 'P' range was in the middle of the map fold, but Mallalieu hadn't put any marks on it. I like careful people.
"Yes, I've got all that; it all sounds well planned."
"It is. Go by hire car, use the Access card in Willis's name. Practise the signature. And I don't have to tell you to look the part. The railway warrant's for emergencies only."
"Red beret?"
"Here." He flipped a new Parachute Regiment beret, complete with badge, from the back of the drawer. "Six and three quarters - right?" He had been doing his homework.
"Right." I tried it on. It didn't fit and perched on top of my head like a pancake. Mallalieu laughed. "Serve you right. You'll have to shrink it and stretch the band tonight. Any other questions?"
"No." I considered the next day. "Just zero the Venus, that's all?"
"Correct. Up to 100 yards. Then come back and we'll talk again."
What about the Ops job?"
I jerked my chin at the door. There's a big row going to break, over the Bull Pen "
Mallalieu pulled a face. "Don't I know it. Don't fret, Andy and I'll handle that. Now, off you go - and don't spend too much on expenses. You've got a four hundred pounds limit on that card. And those documents I do need back on signature."
*
*
*
The next day turned out to be a pleasant day in the country. I pottered down to Warminster and moved through the barriers to 'P' range. Salisbury Plain forgets to be a dreary succession of downland and is on
its best
behaviour
round Warminster, with steep little valleys and copses huddling down to streams or little green fields which turn out to be army ranges.
At the empty range I parked the hire car and got out stretching. While I zipped up my combat smock, pulled on my beret (which still felt too tight) and stamped my boots to shake down the
combat
trousers in the vanity of soldiers, a small figure detached itself from the control hut and made its way towards me.
The rooks caw-cawed in their trees as the figure walked up and saluted. Underneath the rifle green beret and badge with the antique Vickers gun of the Small Arms School Corps, was a wrinkled,
weather-beaten
little man, with the kind of complexion shared by Falklands sheep farmers and rich Californian matrons. Sharp blue eyes flicked quickly over my rank badges and uniform. "Q Dawlish, Sir. You're ... ?"
"Captain Willis, Q. Sorry I'm late. Traffic."
He half smiled, satisfied. "Right. Well, if you'd like to set up on the firing point, Sir, I'll go and bring up some targets. Figure elevens all right?
We lapsed into the technical mumbo-jumbo of our trade until he disappeared to press the necessary buttons while I checked the weapon on the point. Ghostly black
man-sized
targets rose and fell silently from the ground as Dawlish checked the controls of the electric target range. I screwed on the flash suppressor and took two of my preloaded magazines before sighting on the large white screen with a cross that Dawlish had brought up at 50 metres centre-range. I looked round to check, but couldn't see him. Instead, a disembodied electronic voice crackled from the concrete hut behind me. "Ready?" I raised a hand in acknowledgement. "Then in your own time, load and carry on."
I clicked the heavy magazines home into their tandem housings, switched on the laser, and sighted it on the white zeroing screen. A pale pink dot glowed, wavering slightly. By clicking the intensity switch to 'daylight', the dot became a rich, ruby jewel of light. I played it on the screen, like a boy with a torch. Cocking the gun, I released the safety catch and held my breath; through the sight the blood red circle glowed, dead centre. I pulled the trigger.
For a split second, the gun bucked and a muffled 'brarrt!' echoed off the hills. Empty cases sprayed down at my feet and the sour sting of cordite blew back into my face. The rooks took fright, cawing loudly as they hung and flapped above the trees.
I examined the Venus with new respect and something approaching amazement. Both magazines were empty and the gun was barely warm; yet it had fired a hundred bullets in the time you or I take to sneeze. The mechanised voice echoed tinnily from the hut's loudspeaker. "Have you got a stoppage?"