Authors: John Macrae
I was stunned. "This Charter. Why didn't you tell me?"
"Tell you? Why should I? Because
you didn't need to know
, that's why. Surely you of all people understand that? Good God! You did your job just as effectively when you
didn't
know.
More
effectively. There was more security that way. That's why I went to such lengths to talk you round over the Roberts job; to make sure you were sound."
I didn't like that past tense. Suddenly I was feeling very left out, exposed. But suspicion gnawed at me. Was Mallalieu just covering up, just protecting himself with good story? Was what he said true? It was very pat.
"Where is this wonderful charter of yours, then?" I snapped. "How do I know you're not just giving me a load of bull to save yourself? How can you prove it?"
He stared at me, then shook his head. "You don't really think I'm going to pull some fancy codeword document covered with red stamps out of a security container here and show you, do you? Whose signature do you need to see, the Queen's ? King George the Sixth and Winston Churchill’s ? With big red sealing wax blobs?" he sneered.
"Well, who do I have to see to know you're telling the truth? The PM?"
"Don't be so stupid." He sighed heavily and sat down. "Jesus Christ," he muttered, "Jesus Christ. Look," he went on, in a reasonable tone, "I don't have to prove anything to you. But you've been a top grade operator in your time, outstanding even. You had a hard time after Iran and so the system looked after you. Or tried to. Now you've become a solid, dependable Director of Specialist Operations. Everyone in the Service thinks highly of you. It's not your fault that you weren't privy to the real reasons behind the Firm, but you didn't need to be. And now you've gone and blown it, by the most stupid, idiotic ..., " he trailed off. "You've ruined a good career," he ended sadly.
"Career? What career? Working for a shady agency, half private, half God-knows-what? Some career; it's hardly as if I was a mainstream SIS officer, is it?"
He looked appalled. "But you are, of course you are."
This time I sat down. Mallalieu looked down at me, not unkindly. "What else are you? You are D. Ops for the SIS Special Projects Group."
"But I thought ... "
"You thought what?"
"Well ... that we were a private company - sometimes doing dirty jobs... for the Agencies."
Mallalieu laughed. It rang hollow in the tense atmosphere. "My God! You idiot. I knew our cover was good, but even
our own Director of Operations
..."
"What are you saying?"
He sat down at his desk, still amused. "What I'm saying is, if you want a secure Special Operations section, how do you do it? Do you set up a super-secret Department V like the KGB and the SVR? Or do you do the CIA’s trick at Langley and have a section on the internet called 'Special Projects'?"
He cocked his head. "Every Secret Service and intelligence anorak in the world will beat a path to your door then. You might as well stick a sign up - because the opposition know where to look, as do half the intelligence conspiracy theorists out there. And they will. Remember Hemming? They sniff around until they penetrate the organisation, or you pay a huge price in security to keep them out. Have you seen CIA’s SP Div at Langley?" I shook my head. "It's bizarre," he went on. "Taxi drivers drop you at the Foggy Bottom indoor range and say, 'Here we are, buddy: Spooksville, USA'!"
He smiled reminiscently. "Or do you do what we've done? Set up a private firm, with a solid commercial cover and base, and let it do your jobs for you on a deniable basis? That's better security in my book; and privatisation was all the rage, if you remember."
"What are trying to tell me?"
"I'm telling you that you're effectively a Special Operations Officer, in the Special Operations Pool, that's what. And quite a senior one, too. Christ, man, you're being paid as what used to pass for a Senior Principal in the Civil Service, with a damn' sight more expenses that a Permanent Under Secretary!"
I was shaken to complete silence. He spun his chair. "This firm is a front. We're an offshoot of what the great British Public calls MI 6. Well, part of us is. Didn't Bill Luxton tell you?"
I shook my head. Mallalieu smiled, "Well, well; for once old Bill did keep to his brief. We told him to make you aware, but not to indoctrinate you; and he didn't." He looked up at me closely. "Nothing at all ? You didn't even suspect?"
"Nothing at all. I always wondered. Bill kept telling me that it was the shadiest damn' firm he'd ever seen." Mallalieu nodded back in agreement. I went on, "I always though it was odd, but never thought that it was part of SIS. But I always wondered how we got such good access and support; even for a class A security contractor company."
Mallalieu n
o
dded grimly. "Well - there you are. We are the ultimate List X company."
There was a long, long pause. "What happens now, Colonel?"
He looked thoughtful and rubbed his chin. "Now, there's the problem. What happens now
?
" He sat at the desk, fingers drumming gazing unseeingly ahead.
A cold feeling began to seep into me. If everything Mallalieu said was true, then I was in bad trouble. Paddy Croft and Harry Plummer were waiting to pounce on me outside for the three hits I'd made. I was a criminal. Would Mallalieu now throw me to the wolves, let justice take its course?
But he couldn't. A cold feeling made my stomach contract with realisation. He'd told me all about what we did and why. I was now fully aware of the SIS's secret Special Projects Wing - and fully exposed as a result: an embarrassment who knew too much. I was the new Briggs. And I knew what had happened to Briggs. I had killed him on Mallalieu's orders, because he knew too much. Quite efficiently, and without a qualm. The crack of his neck going in the car suddenly came back to me. It had sounded like a carrot snapping, I remembered I suddenly realised how Briggs might have felt, and felt sick. I looked up, to meet to Mallalieu's eyes, cold and calculating, staring at me across his desk.
It's not often that you see that look. I'd only seen it before over the barrel of a gun.
Mallalieu was measuring me....for what?
*
*
*
At moments like that, a trivial word or incident can turn your whole life.
It's like a soldier who comes out of a dugout and decides to go left. A minute later a shell lands on the other side, killing his comrade who turned right. The seemingly chance arm of destiny is as random as a playful kitten's paw. I think what I said next probably saved my bacon.
"I think I'd better resign and take the rap from Harry Plummer. I can't afford to implicate the Firm; now I know all about it, it's far too important. "
"What?”
“I’d best come clean, Colonel. Take the rap.”
Mallalieu was startled. “You really mean that, don't you?"
"Yes, I do. I can't really see any alternative."
There was a long silence and Mallalieu looked out of the window, tapping a pencil against his teeth. Then he turned to me. "No." He shook his head decisively. "No, we can't risk that. I presume that we've seen your last piece of private enterprise?"
"Yes, of course. "
"Right." He thought for a moment, looking that the telephones on his desk. "What we now need is some kind of damage control exercise. " He rubbed his chin.
He picked up the red telephone on his desk, which I had always thought was connected to Sellers' Office. It was obviously connected to some other system because he pressed a quick code on the buttons and started speaking immediately.
"William?
-
It's Tom
-
Tom Mallalieu. We've got a problem
.
" A pause. "No, no, nothing like that. Personnel this time." Another pause. "It's my D Ops
-
that's right –
yes, him… Well, you know this HSSIG investigation? -- That's the one -- Well, he is the man they're after."
There was an even longer pause, broken once by Mallalieu saying, 'Because he's told me, that's how.' Incongruously, a pretty, stylized red flower
appeared
on his pad as he doodled away with a ballpoint. "That's right," he went on eventually. I'll talk to the Cabinet Office immediately; -- no -- no -- OK. In that case, you'd better talk to them yourself. What about the Home Office?"
In answer to a question of some kind, he reacted sharply and glanced up at me. "No. Not at all. It won't be that kind of affair. I won't hear of that sort of action. No, no," he went on, urgently. "That’s not necessary. He's not that sort of case at all ... he's all for throwing himself on the mercy of the Old Bailey from what I can gather."
I heard the snort from the other end from where I was sitting, feeling about as uncomfortable as a schoolboy in his Headmaster's office. "Now, look, why don't I come over and discuss it ... yes, I know. Now? Say -, " he glanced at his watch, "Say six o'clock. I'll come to you - OK? Well done, William. I knew you would. See you then - G'bye." He hung up, a look of relief on his face.
"I'm going to see Lamaison now," he said. "I think you'd better come over to Threadneedle Street with me. Andy can hold the fort here for a bit."
One thing was certain: Mallalieu didn't intend to let me out of his sight. Not yet, anyway.
I was the man who knew too much.
That meant that I was probably next for a cosy little Whitehall execution by accident.
SOMETHING IN THE CITY
When I walked in on Lamaison, I got the shock of my life.
It was
Henderson,
the man who'd set me up to do the Heinemann hit in Italy two years ago. The one I’d met in Peters’ office when I’d come out of hospital.
I must have spluttered a bit, because he muttered something about, 'a small, but necessary, deception,' and, 'checking if I was sound', and that sort of guff, but frankly I had difficulty in taking it all in. At first anyway. Lamaison was definitely the grey ‘Mr Henderson’ that Director SAS had introduced. I tell you, it muddled up the first couple of minutes. Then I began to focus on Mr bloody Lamaison: if i
ndeed that was his real name.
Now that I looked at him more closely, Lamaison was like a lot of the higher grade Civil Servants I've met; insignificant to look at, despite his skinny six feet, slightly untidy, but with a sharp brain. If he hadn't expected me to be there, or disapproved of what I'd done, it didn't show. It was hard to guess his age; I'd have put him anywhere between forty five and fifty five from his unlined face and grey hair. Everything about Lamaison seemed to be grey; his hair, his suit, his mannerisms, even his eyes. Everything, that is, except his mind.
"Nice to see you," he greeted me, while Mallalieu made a half hearted introduction. "Of course, we've met
twice
before."
"We have?" I was startled. "
I only remember the briefing... Director Special Force's office...."
"Yes. But you also gave an excellent presentation at MoD
after
the Heinemann affair - about two years ago." He puzzled around making a great play of offering cups of tea from an elaborate tea ser
vice on a table in the corner. “
Most concise ... very clear."
I tried to picture it, but couldn't recall him from the faceless little group at the back of the Minister's office that spring morning. It seemed so long ago. "I missed you at that. I thought you should have been there."
"Oh," he said, slightly surprised. "I organised the briefing. I was in the control booth. We needed to see if there was any more to you than just a very competent operator."
There was an awkward pause.
"Now then," he turned to Mallalieu, "Where do we go from here?
Mallalieu gave a bald outline of the story. He didn't present me in any particularly bad light, but I felt distinctly foolish and stupid by the time he'd finished. From time to time Lamaison looked up at me and once shook his head.
Lamaison. "Mmm; that seems pretty straightforward, Tom. What's the next move, eh?"
Mallalieu looked uncomfortable. "Well, a number of options are open..."
"Really? I'd have thought they were limited."
"It depends what you're trying to achieve, William."
"Which is ... ?" Lamaison waved a teacup.
"Security, minimum embarrassment, making sure it doesn't happen again."
"Yes... " Lamaison looked thoughtful. "Tricky, that, eh? Bit of a risk, do you think?"
"Not really." Mallalieu's manner was persuasive. "I don't think we need fear any repetition." They both looked at me for confirmation. I shook my head.
"Of course not. I didn't realise ......" I began, but Lamaison, having satisfied himself that I wasn't going to run amok slaughtering the inhabitants of the square mile with an assortment of illegal weapons, wasn't listening to me any more. His calm, almost indifferent manner was frightening. I was being treated like some academic problem.
"There's no question of any more incidents," Mallalieu went on, "Which really only leaves us with the Home Office case to worry about."
"Yes," Lamaison said, slowly. "And that's being run by ... ?"
"Home Office Special Security Group
-
HSSIG - Stuart Smart's people. A man called Paddy ... " he looked at me.
"Croft," I supplied.
"Paddy Croft; he seemed to be leading."
"Ah, yes, Croft." Lamaison absorbed the idea of Paddy Croft leading the investigation. "And this investigation ... ?" Again his question trailed vaguely off into mid-air, leaving Mallalieu to provide an answer.
"Seemed to be in the early stages. First interview - probably a substantial file somewhere in Queen Anne's Gate, or the Yard, I'd imagine."
"And the bug," I reminded him. "Don't forget the bug."
"Oh, yes," said Mallalieu. " They put a device in my office some weeks ago."
"I crunched it today," I said.
"Did you now
?
Really
?
" Lamaison eyed me curiously, as if to satisfy himself what sort of man went around
willfully
destroying HM Government property. He put his cup down slowly. “And how do you think they'll feel about that?"
I was tempted to ask him why didn't he pick up the sodding telephone to the Home Office buggers and bloody well ask them himself but I daren't. This indifferent grey man with his tea and academic manner probably held the power - quite literally of life and death over me. God knows what influence he wielded. I swallowed and tried to stay relaxed while Lamaison watched me with an appraising stare.
"If it's a collection operation, they'll assume we know of the device. If a bug stops transmitting, it's always assumed to be because the victim's found it."
"Quite so; therefore ... ?"
"Therefore they'll know that we've found out we're under suspicion."
"Yes - so - ?"
"They'll probably move quite quickly now."
Lamaison rubbed his nose, his lips pursed. "Possibly ... possibly." He wasn't convinced. He probably didn't approve of Civil Servants moving quickly,
on principle. It smacked of being 'hasty', I could tell.
Mallalieu spoke up. "William, isn't there any way you can - well, talk to the Home Office?"
Lamaison seemed to turn the idea over in his mind. Obviously talking to the Home Office was a challenging intellectual problem. "I suppose I could," he said, doubtfully. "With a view to what, precisely... ?"
"Well, to asking them to stop their enquiries."
"Yes ... " said Lamaison, doubtfully, clearly meaning 'no'. "I could do, I suppose."
By now I'd made up my mind about Lamaison/Henderson. Whatever happened, he wouldn't be left responsible or holding the baby. Everything so far had apparently been suggested to him, leaving him with the choice of using it or ignoring it as he felt suited him best. Whatever course of action was proposed, he'd be able to claim it was someone else's idea and that any actions were done by other people. If it suited his purpose.
He probably thought he was brilliantly clever,
manoeuvering
people into following his wishes while they took any blame. I'd got him clocked as a scheming, devious, two-faced and probably vindictive shit, with all the loyalty of a ambitious jackal, and about as ruthless. I saw now why he'd done so well in the higher reaches of the Civil Service in Whitehall. Well, I might be in trouble but I wasn't going to let this grey man think he ruled my World. I decided to tickle him up a bit and to hell with it.
"Of course," I intervened, "You could let Paddy Croft's investigation run its course. I'm quite prepared to make a full statement, admitting everything, if necessary. But that would be a criminal police matter, CID, not Special Branch, and, of course, once solicitors and newspapers became involved .... "
Mallalieu blanched. Lamaison looked totally unmoved. "Yes, it must be very tricky for you; to know what to do, I mean." He began to pour some more tea. "It just seems so unnecessary, all that press fuss, so - messy."
Suddenly I realised that we were going to get nothing out of Lamaison. Even my oblique threat of a criminal scandal couldn't budge him. He wanted me to offer to disappear quickly, quietly and without fuss. And he was quite prepared to sit there all day, going through his bloody Japanese tea ceremony, while we made suggestions until finally we went away to do what precisely he wanted. I'll bet he was a great success on the
innumerable
Whitehall Intelligence Committees.
I looked across at Mallalieu. He sat there, brow furrowed, nervously curling a foot against a chair rung. He'd called me naïve, but Lamaison was running rings round him, and probably had for years. A feeling of disgust, of revulsion almost, was beginning to grow inside me. Not once had the words justice or right been mentioned. If I'd said that that to Mallalieu he'd have probably growled something about my 'school-boy morality'; Lamaison, on the other hand, would almost certainly have said 'what an interesting view' and 'what do you think?'
I shook it off and dragged myself back to the conversation; Mallalieu was trying to convince Lamaison that we had to phone Stuart Smart's Home Secretary's Special Investigation Group to get them to call off their investigation. Lamaison nodded doubtfully.
"Quite, Tom, quite. You make a convincing case. This Stuart Smart fellow; you know him? Do you think he’ll play ball?"
Inwardly I groaned as Mallalieu was set up. "Oh, yes, very well. Stuart was the Training Subaltern at the Parachute Regiment Depot when I worked in MO."
"MO?"
"Military Operations. In MOD - just before I retired."
“Quite, quite." Lamaison appeared to think deeply. "You see, I hardly know the chap - except by sight - so it would probably come better ... " He broke off as he buried his nose in a teacup. His timing would have done credit to a stand up comic, and the silence stretched.
Mallalieu filled it. "From someone who knows him?"
"Well, yes, if you think so. Good idea.” Lamaison's cup went away from his mouth on cue. He leaned his head on one side, looking doubtfully at Mallalieu. "Do you think you could, you know, speak to him?"
"Oh, yes." Mallalieu brightened. "I'll see Stuart and give him a brief. Ask him if he can stop any investigation. He's a sensible man. He knows the score."
"Hmm. And, of course, he's still quite new, quite ... malleable ..." mused Lamaison. "I mean, he'll be very receptive, I should think. Would you like me to have a word with his PUS at the Home Office?"
Mallalieu liked that. I felt a wave of cynicism. By the time Lamaison and his cosy little Mafia of senior Civil Servants had passed the parcel, Stuart Smart would be trussed up like Houdini before going over Niagara Falls. I suppose I should have felt grateful - after all, I was probably going to be the beneficiary of the deal. But my overriding emotion was sorrow for Stuart, who I knew vaguely. His HSSIG didn't have a chance once this lot had ganged up to squash the investigation. Or twist it their way.
Because that was what Mallalieu and Lamaison wanted: a nice quiet life with no fuss and no embarrassment. The only difference seemed to be in their attitude to me. Mallalieu was all for me continuing as his D. Ops, forgive and forget, all boys together. Lamaison obviously found me a 'Problem' with a capital 'P'; I hadn't missed the significance of that telephone conversation earlier, with saying Mallalieu that 'he wouldn't hear of that sort of action'. I had a pretty shrewd idea of what sort of 'action' Lamaison had suggested and I didn't like the idea much. An ugly vision of Briggs on his last voyage to Valhalla popped into my mind, and did nothing for my morale. After all, Lamaison was the one calling the shots - literally. I wondered where he lived. I might need to pay him a visit one day.
Lamaison turned his attention to me. Like all these civil servant types, he shrank from naked displays of authority. Deep down he loved his power and influence but he shied away from any from personal responsibility. I knew the type from MoD staff officers
I’d seen reporting to
Whitehall’s endless parade of civil service committees. But he couldn't avoid it this time. He had to satisfy himself that I wasn't a threat before calling off the hounds, and the only way he could do that was to ask me himself to be able to answer any future enquiry.
I suppose it must have see
med
an odd little drama to Mallalieu
-
his number two virtually on trial for his life
-
because Lamaison was both my Judge and Jury. I was in no doubt about that. The prospect didn't seem to unsettle him and if he personally was conscious of any drama, he gave no sign. He started to pour another cup of tea and seemed vaguely surprised to discover that the well of the teapot had astonishingly run dry. He peered at it disbelievingly and set it down with a sigh. This bit of business allowed me time to become conscious of my own emotions. To my surprise I felt calm - almost light-headed.
"Now, I wonder if I could just
ask
you a few questions to clarify my mind, you know; clear up a few points, that sort of thing. Hmm?" He looked up to see if I was agreeable, reached for his cup, then remembered with a vaguely disappointed air that there was none left. "You see, I don't really understand what you’ve done, exactly: could you.... well.... explain a little -- you know?"
"Tell you what I've done?" I was curt.
"Quite. "