Authors: John Macrae
"Tell me," said Mallalieu, "This policeman who came to see you that night. What branch was he?"
"CID, I suppose. Special Branch? I don't know. He didn't say."
He looked grim. "Why don't we ask Harry Plummer? What if he
wasn't
CID?"
I hadn't really thought of that. Come to think of it, I hadn't seen our police liaison officer for a long time.
"I've not seen Harry for weeks. Is he still calling?"
Mallalieu looked up sharply. "I hope so. If not, I've not been told."
"Do you know if Harry would make trouble for us?"
"No." Mallalieu was emphatic. "Why? Do you know of any reason why he should?"
The answer to that was 'yes'. I did know of a reason. Several in fact.
Spicer – castrated, now singing high treble: Varley – stabbed and very dead: and lastly, three Brixton muggers - one dead, two crippled. Let alone a dead Jonno Briggs. The question was, did Harry Plummer know about them, too?
I began to feel very uneasy and a lot of pennies were beginning to drop. I was conscious of Mallalieu staring at me. "Well? Can you think of any reasons for Harry Plummer to cause us trouble?"
"No," I lied, "But if he did decide to get suspicious, he'd be well placed to finger us."
"Suspicious? Of what?"
"Oh, I don't know. Briggs's convenient accident? Maybe he's still worried about his mysterious bagman. Remember him? The ex-SAS little pack. Did anything come of that, by the way?"
"No, it didn't ...
" Mallalieu looked away, distant, thoughtful. "But Plummer never quite cleared that up for me. It just seemed to fade away."
I was secretly quite content with that, but Mallalieu's brain was obviously racing. "So Let’s think this through… Plummer's not happy. So he tells his boss."
"The Head of Special Branch?" I queried.
"Hardly," snorted Mallalieu. Then he stopped. "But, yes, you're right; eventually that's where it would end up. But Harry's got his intermediate bosses. Middle management of the Met. And they don't like groups like us at all. That I do know. They don’t quite know what we do and they think we’re messy and illegal. That I do know. And they've never been keen on Harry's post. It's a bit too…" he paused, looking for the word. "A bit too.... independent...for the Met h
ie
rarchy."
"But wouldn't we be told if Harry was worried about us? What if Harry reports we’re a problem?”
"No." Mallalieu was emphatic. "He'd go to his Liaison Committee. If Special Branch smelled a rat – about
any
of the List X firms -, they'd have to check there first."
Mallalieu was like a terrier now, in hot pursuit of a theory. "It means that Plummer feels suspicious - so he talks to his boss as Special Branch; the Branch tells the Assistant Commissioner, and the AC would talk to Box 500. At the highest level. Remember it’s Five who give us out List X licence. ."
"But surely the Box would then liaise with
your
intelligence coordinator, and you'd get to know? Through this SP(E) gang you were talking about."
"Yes, I should, theoretically ... unless ...
unless
... " Mallalieu was discovering a new thought.
"Unless what?"
"Unless it was a
criminal
matter. Don't forget, Harry Plummer's a policeman first."
I waffled. "Criminal? Like Roberts? But we did that for them."
"Yes." Mallalieu made a dismissive gesture; “Roberts wasn't criminal... Not really. That was more national policy…. But Harry would have different orders if he thought a
real
crime had been committed..." Mallalieu's conscience was revealing itself as an amazingly flexible instrument. After Roberts and Briggs, what counted as a real crime for him? Auschwitz? Or did it depend on who gave the order?
"Let's hope they don't know."
Mallalieu pulled a face. We crunched across Horse Guards. "Criminal, criminal," he muttered.
"What?"
"Criminal, that's the key. Neither Special Branch nor Box can do anything about deniable ops. They wouldn’t even want to
.
But…But, but: if they thought we'd gone bent,
police
bent that is, then everything else makes sense. For example, if they thought we were crooks and were on the take.
Ripping them off.
They
’
d investigate us in a heartbeat. And they wouldn't even give us a sniff of what they were up to, if they suspected us. You know that. If it was a
Police
matter. Don't you see?"
I felt as though I'd swallowed a lump of lead. Mallalieu had just worked ou
t
and voiced my
own
worst fears. But Mallalieu didn't know about my worst fears or my private ventures in the revenge business. My
criminal
ventures, which I suddenly realised were very criminal matters. Funny, I'd never thought of them like that before. I'd never thought of myself as a
criminal.
Everything began to make horrible sense. The police visit, Harry Plummer's speculative eye, Mallalieu's worries about a bugged office: there was a pattern of
criminal
investigation behind it all that I didn't like. “But wouldn't someone let you know if we were under suspicion? Or at least the Director?"
Again the emphatic shake of the head. "No. Not if the police thought that the company had gone bent. That's the last thing they'd do if they thought we were on the take or up to mischief. They know pretty well what we do. But if we ever got out of hand they'd crucify us. Through the Home Office; and Five would back them. We're not exactly popular with the main stream boys."
"Out of hand? You mean like with Briggs?"
For the first time Mallalieu's confidence faltered. "I hadn't connected with that," he muttered. "I'd almost forgotten about him."
I hadn't; "Hang on, though. The police came to my flat afte
r
the
Roberts
thing. That was long before we'd ever worried about Briggs. We never mentioned Briggs' accident until well after the Roberts business. It was when I came back to the office; with Andy ... "
"That's right. You're absolutely right. So why? Why did the police come to you in your flat after Roberts. Why should we be bugged? Why us? Why now? Why?"
We stood in Whitehall, trying to unravel the puzzle, watching the traffic roar to a halt at the lights and inhaling the stink of diesel fumes. The buildings of government towered over us on every side, dwarfing tourists and traffic alike. "I think," said Tom Mallalieu, "I need a drink."
I agreed. We both needed a drink; badly.
* * *
Silently, Mallalieu and I we walked through the stationary traffic, and silently we stood looking out of the windows of the Red Lion, towards the Cenotaph. The pub was full of chattering tourists, admiring the old wood panelling and talking loudly in a babel of languages.
Personally I was admiring the spectacular bust of a Swedish blonde who was clutching a pint of Guinness, a look of amazement on her face. Around her stood a giggling circle of Scandinavian-looking women clutching S.A.S. Airlines flight bags. She took a tentative sip of the dark liquid and grimaced. A pink tongue flickered over her lips and she shuddered ostentatiously. The group squealed at her display, and then she caught my eye, smiling back unselfcon
s
ciously. The other women followed her eyes and giggled.
I snapped out of my reverie and looked up to meet Mallalieu's sardonic gaze.
"Do you want the other half?"
I shook my head. "I don't think I could cope with it." His eyes followed mine back to the statuesque Swede. "Nor that either." As we pushed out of the door, I noticed that the woman with '
SVERIGE
' on her bag was now sharing the Guinness among her friends. Squeals and giggles of delight followed us into the street.
"All right," I started, taking up the conversation where we'd left off, "How come you're so sure that you're bugged?"
His face became bleak. "Just some odd things. A funny feeling that people knew a lot about our business. A friend of mine on the Home Office said to me last week that he'd issued a warrant. Something about 'what have you been up to
,
Tom?' "
So that was how the Establishment tipped each other off, was it? Well, so much for Whitehall security.
Mallalieu went on, "But it was something that Lamaison said as well."
"Lamaison?"
"He's the Assistant Under Secretary over at SP(E). When I was talking to him yesterday he seemed a bit - distant. Curt almost. Then he mentioned something he couldn't possibly have known about."
"Oh? What?"
"He started to talk about a deal we're concocting for the Saudi Arabian National Guard." Noting my puzzled look, he continued, "Even you don't know about this. The Director popped into my office two days ago, just before he flew to Australia. We spent about half an hour chatting in strict confidence about an idea he'd just had. It's all about marketing an anti-kidnapping protection service for some of the Saudi leaders. It's quite a good scheme, but the point is, Lamaison knew the precise figure we'd discussed - 4.3 million pounds."
"What did he say, exactly? Can you remember?"
"More or less." Mallalieu screwed his eyes, remembering; " Something about, 'Do you think this is the best time for your group to indulge in high profile activity, even for a juicy £4.3 million contract?'"
"Are you sure Sellers hadn't told him?"
"I'm absolutely bloody certain. You see, I phoned the Director last night. He's in Singapore. He not only hasn't talked about the deal to anybody but he couldn't even remembe
r the fig
ure we'd talked about. He thought it as '4 point something' and then plumped for £4.7 million. But Lamaison
knew
it was 4.3 million. Spot on. And he was right. Now, how did an A
.
U
.
S
.
know the details of our private contracts, eh?”
The enormity of his charge came home to me as Big Ben solemnly bonged away in the background. "It seems pretty conclusive, doesn't it?" he demanded. “Bugging? Because I haven’t talked to a soul about the deal.”
“What about the Saudis? They might have mentioned it.”
“Sellers hasn’t even spoken to them yet. He goes to see Prince Abdul Rahman el Feisal in two days time - in Jedda. And he certainly hasn’t even mentioned any specific sum. That’s why he’s going.”
“Maybe your international call was monitored. NSA? GCHQ? After all, this Echelon system is supposed to monitor every call..."
“But Lamaison mentioned the four point three
million
before
I
talked to Sellers. If it isn’t a bug in my office, then how the devil did the exact sum leak out? Someone’s monitoring us - somehow.”
I remained silent, listening to the chimes fading. I had to agree - it did seem conclusive. How the hell did some anonymous Assistant Under Secretary with some obscure links with the Intelligence business know our business? A thought occurred to me; "M
aybe he picked it up from
Six or the banks? You know, like that Matrix Churchill case years back? The government knew all about
their
business. They bugged them because they were on a sensitive defence contract. Just like us. Maybe it's just routine surveillance - to ensure that we are good boys"
Mallalieu looked dubious. "Yes. But why suddenly start now?"
That tallied with another question that was rubbing away at the back of my mind, uncomfortable as a pebble in a shoe. "How long do you think this bugging has been going on, then?"
"That's the sixty-four thousand dollar question, isn't it?" He looked drawn, "I'm assuming that it's pretty recent."
"Have you had a debugging sweep done?"
Mallalieu shook his head. "Not yet; I wanted to talk to you first."
"But you
must
have a sweep, Colonel. If you think we’re being bugged. You must."
"I know; I know." He looked hunted. He looked how I was feeling. Worried.
"When was the last routine sweep?" I persisted.
"About three months ago, I think."
"So Technical Services aren't due for another couple of months." A thought struck me. "Hang on, though, didn't you have your office redecorated last month?
"Yes, when they did the Director's office and the Reception Lobby. But that was nearer two months ago ... "
Satisfied, my mind went backwards, browsing over thoughts, looking for ideas. Suddenly I stumbled into an ugly cow-pat of memory. I turned to Mallalieu. I knew how we'd been bugged. "That works service - who did it? The decorating contract, I mean."
“Well, I don't know; contractors, I suppose.” He flapped his arms. “I mean, they weren't our people. We had to get an outside firm ... " His mind caught up. "Oh, my God, you don't think it was the contractors ... ?"