Authors: John Macrae
It was then that I realised what was going on. They must have turned over my flat. And the lock up gara
ge with the guns and the tools.
They knew. They had known. When?? Mallalieu must have known what was going on. At some stage they'd found out and had kept quiet until they could get me out of the way. I'd been set up.
The surveillance, the minders: they
weren't collecting evidence
on me: they were keeping tabs on me to
make sure that I was got out of the country. W
ithout any fuss or embarrassment. That's why Mallalieu scribbled down all those details about my mortgage and the bank and gas. Including the letter 'to whom it may concern' sitting quietly at the lawyers.
Christ! I'd been so stupid...
I can remember standing there like a zombie when all of a sudden the public address system burst into its metallic quack-speak as some disembodied Miss Prim urged us all to the final boarding gate.
Suddenly everyone else surged to their feet and flooded past me, bearing me backwards towards the door and the aeroplane. For a few seconds I struggled against them, while curious white faces looked up at me, and plastic bags, briefcases and babies were borne past to the boarding gate. Over the heads of the crowd I could see the two minders, now alert, watching my attempt to swim against the tide, their hands poised over their waists.
They'd got their orders all right.
And I knew what they were. 'Make sure he gets on the plane and no fuss.' Well, they'd find they had got a little problem now. I wasn't going. And I was going to make one hell of a fuss. I'd been used, played like a fool: the bastards had exploited me. I expect that's why Mallalieu had offered to drive me to the airport. He’d been told to get me out of the way - personally. Christ, I'd been blind! But suddenly I could see it all. Now I knew. They’d stitched me up.
I dug my shoulder firmly into a surprised passenger’s body and began to move against the press of people heading back towards the airport, away from the plane.
And then the third thing hit me.
I saw him. Standing behind the heavy glass door between the departure lounge and the rest of the airport, was a familiar figure, flanked by two uniformed policeman wearing flak jackets and toting Heckler Koch MP5s. Arms folded, watching me grim-faced, stood an unmistakable figure solidly barring my way, a barrier to freedom and to hope. Harry Plummer. Staring openly, and without a flicker of recognition, straight at me.
Harry Plummer. It was then I realised that I hadn't got a chance. I gave in, helpless, and let the flood of humanity bear me backwards, unresisting, washed out of the glass walled lounge with its sick-green plastic seats, washed out of the UK to a hopeless future. You see, they must have known for a long time. Mallalieu had known from the beginning.
He'd tricked me. All along. No wonder they'd used me for Roberts and Briggs. I'd been set up - used. Lamaison had tricked me too. And Joy? What would they do to her? What had I done to her?
"Sorry, sir?" said the air hostess, taking my boarding card.
"Nothing, love - I didn't say anything. It doesn't matter."
She exchanged glances with her male steward companion on the aircraft door. I expect she was worried that I was going to be the type of difficult passenger they'd warned her about at the Stewardess Smile School. But she needn't have worried.
You see, I had nowhere else to go. And no-one to talk to.
No-one.
THE CONSCIENCE OF THE PRESS,
Wapping
“So this is what he told you. Right?”
The News Editor reached out a nicotine-stained forefinger and switched off the tape recorder. "That's it?" He looked up at his reporter, who nodded, searching his boss's lined face for a reaction.
Bill Robertson pulled the corners of his mouth down and looked out of the window. The open space of Docklands provided a magnificent view, and on depressingly rare occasions, inspiration as well. "You've checked it out?"
Again the reporter nodded.
Vivid patches of peeling sunburn on his nose and forehead clashed with dangling strips of white skin. It must have been bloody hot out there in Kabul, Robertson reflected. Mike Fielder had obviously not spent all his time in the hotel bar making it up - but this ... He shook his head and lit the inevitable cigarette. Since he'd become News Editor, he'd pushed the smoking up to well over forty a day. He must cut back. At least he had the privilege of making his own office a smoking zone, whatever the bloody law said.
"Let me get this right, Mike. You're out there on your second night and you meet this bloke in the bar." The Belfast accent was still there, after nearly thirty years in London. "You thought he was military ...”
"No, Chief," interrupted Fielder. "I thought he was a spook. I'd seen him earlier with the Six man in the High Commission."
"The Six man?"
"Yes. He's a bloke called McKenzie; claims to be a Second Secretary Commercial or some other nonsense, but everyone knows what he does. He might as well wear a badge and advertise in Yellow Pages."
Robertson's eyebrows climbed slightly, then subsided. He didn't smile. "So you start boozing ...”
"I was looking for a story ... "
"... which is why, doubtless, you're claiming it all on your fiddle sheet," grunted Robertson. "And this fellow says, 'let's carry on our chat upstairs.' Right?"
"Right. Alcohol is almost as taboo in parts of Pakistan now as it is in Saudi - in public, anyway. They've gone very fundamentalist."
"So you go up to your hotel room and attack a bottle of Bell's, during which Charlie Henry spills this fairy story, and what's more, lets you put it on tape." He gestured at the
cassette
recorder.
"Right. But he didn't 'let' me put it on tape, Chief: he
insisted
on
it. He said he wanted it all on the record. Everything."
Robertson gnawed a cuticle and looked at the tape recorder. Sensing his indecision, Fielder jumped in. "Look, at first I didn't believe a word of it, either. But the more he went on, the more I began to wonder. It was all too pat. He'd got everything: places, names, people. It had to be true. So I asked around when I got back, and it all checks. I wasn't going to come near you until I was sure. I'm not stupid."
"I wondered what you'd been up to since you got back," growled Robertson. "We’ve missed your smiling presence in the newsroom. And?"
"It's true. No doubt about it. And not only that, but I reckon there must be one hell of a cover-up going on."
Robertson drummed his fingers, then switched the tape to 're-wind'. The whirring of the machine was loud in the stuffy office.
"Oh, come on, Bill," Fielder's voice was exasperated. "You know it's true. Christ, if that cutting wasn't him, who was it?" He threw a piece of paper on the desk.
Robertson picked up a two-week old photocopy of a short piece from an inside page. It was a 'World Brief' from the Telegraph:
Mystery Briton Killed
Afghan authorities reported that 20 tribesmen and a mystery Briton were killed in a clash between Taliban Militia and warring factions in the continuing civil war in North East Afghanistan earlier this week. British Embassy officials in Kabul said that the Briton may have been John Boyd, a tourist. Local sources believe he may have strayed into an inter-tribal dispute while trekking in the mountains near the Chinese border
.
A
.
P
.
"And you reckon that the bloke you met - Wright? - "
"Frederick William
Wright,” Fielder
nodded. "Said everyone called him Fritz.'"
"Fritz?"
"Something to do with the Army; learning German. I dunno..."
"So you reckon this bloke Fritz you met in the bar was really Boyd, the one reported killed?" Robertson pulled the corners of his mouth down. "What did he look like ?"
Fielder shrugged: "Pretty ordinary.
Dark
hair. Until you looked at him closely. Tallish. Six foot. Sort of thin and tight, if you know what I mean. Looked a bit underweight
if anything
. Very quiet and hard, though." He reflected. "Oh yes; he had very stary sort of blue eyes.
Like a Husky dog.
Looked right through you, if you know what I mean..." he trailed off.
'You reckon that he was this mystery bloke - Boyd - the Afghan say got killed, but no-one back here could trace?"
"Right. I'm sure it's this guy Fritz I met in the hotel. Fritz, Boyd – it’s the same person."
Robertson read the cutting again. Fielder peeled a strip of dead skin from his nose and absently chewed it while he watched his boss, trying to gauge his reaction. Robbo could be an awkward sod at times, but he'd never let a good story go. He was too professional a newsman.
"And of course it would be an exclusive." The reporter timed his intervention carefully. "A world exclusive for the paper," he added.
"A big scoop for Fielder eh?" sneered Robertson. Fielder sat silent. "And you say you've checked it?"
"Yes, of course."
"That's a change, after your last effort. Three factual errors, wasn't it?" Fielder flushed. "You've spoken to this bloke - Mallalieu?"
"Yes." The reporter consulted a notebook. "He's the Managing Director of 'Specialist Insurance Services Ltd. I've seen their accounts at Companies House. Formed eight years ago, turnover between twelve and fifteen million, directors are some retired Guards General called Sellers, Mallalieu and some an appointee of a Lloyds trust. Ex-Foreign Office type I think. Cooling. Anyway he’s got a CMG after his name. Got offices behind Victoria."
"What did Mallalieu say?"
"He was very helpful; well, up to a point." Again, Fielder looked at his notebook. "Yes, he did know Frederick William Wright. Known as Fritz. Yes, he was an ex-serviceman. Yes, he'd been in the SAS. The firm had employed a number of ex-servicemen in the past for high risk protection and overseas duties. Mainly bodyguarding. Low level stuff like that."
“And Boyd? The one in the paper?”
“Never heard of him. At least that’s what Mallalieu claimed.”
"Did you ask him about the Spicer thing?"
"Yes. He said that he didn't see a connection, but he remembered it vaguely. Read it in the papers"
"And Varley; those three muggers down in Brixton?"
"He couldn't remember Varley. He said he thought everyone remembered the Brixton muggers case."
“Briggs?"
"Oh, he knew all about Jonno Briggs 'A very sad affair' he called it, 'His worst moment with the company' he said it was. 'But it's water under the bridge now,' was his line. 'Old boy, don't you know'. That sort of stuff."
Robertson snorted in disgust. "Did he say where this SAS heavy – Wright…
Fritz was now?"
"He didn't know. Mallalieu claimed h
e'd resigned about a month ago.
Left very suddenly." Fielder scratched his sunburn meditatively.
"And?" prompted Robertson.
'Well, Mallalieu hinted - he didn't actually say so - that Wright had been dipping his fingers in the till and had left under a cloud. Said he thought he'd left the country. Didn't have a forwarding address. He implied Wright was a bit of a waster. Kicked out of the Army. I checked," he added hastily, "And he
was
a compulsory redundancy."
"But I thought you said Wright was their operations manager?"
Fielder pulled a face. "Mallalieu laughed when I said that; 'Oh, I don't think so. Poor old Fritz just got a bit of consultancy and the occasional bodyguarding and baby-sitting jobs, just to give him a leg up. Nothing more.' He even said that 'the Inland Revenue will confirm his freelance status...' I even followed one of the secretaries from the building and chatted her up."
"And?"
"Not a dicky bird. Nothing. She was very uncomfortable, stilted. But she swore she only knew Mr Wright vaguely. He was a consultant. ‘Freelance’, she said. She'd been warned off. "
He sighed. "Mallalieu has got it all sewn up; or someone has. No, according to Mallalieu, Mr Wright's nothing to do with him." Robertson's eyebrows knitted over his nose in a frown of irritation and puzzlement. The reporter leaned forward, urgently. 'Well, he would say that, wouldn't he, Bill? Let's face it, you don't expect people like Mallalieu to say 'it's a fair cop, guv', do you?"
"Did you ask him about the bloke killed in Afghanistan - Boyd?"
"Yes. Never heard of him. So he said. 'He didn't quite catch the connection...' "
"How did Mallalieu strike you?"
The reporter pulled a face. "Creepy. Very establishment. As smooth an ex-Army type as you'll find. Your typical suit. Nice pin stripe, member of the Special Forces Club. I checked him in the old Army lists - the biographical bits. Ex-Para, ex Intelligence Corps, ex-funny jobs. Retired some years ago. Your real gentleman." He sneered. It wasn't a compliment. "But I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw him."
Robertson changed tack. "What about the girl-friend - this Joy woman?"
"Ah well, I went round to see her. At her place. She's all right. A very nice girl,
nice,
very tasty ... " he caught Robertson's eye and came to the point. "But she doesn't know much. She confirmed all Wright's details, though. His flat and so on. They were engaged, you know. But she was.....well...
evasive."
"Where did she say Wright was now?"
"She said that he was out in Pakistan doing some insurance job."
"Do you think that she knew about all this?" Robertson waved the cutting. "Did you tell her about Wright
-
Fritz
-
and Boyd? Did you make the connection?"
"No." Fielder paused, thinking hard. "But she knew something
,
I’m sure.
She seemed very - well, tight, inside, I mean. Frightened. No; over-controlled, if you get me. Too careful. She was definitely holding something back."
"Didn't she see the Boyd story? Does she think he's dead?"
'Hard to say; I don't think so. 'She didn't know when he'd be back', she said.
'Had she been got at?"
'Possibly. Again, hard to tell." Fielder looked puzzled. "I didn't want to push it. I didn't say I'd met him out in Kabul. I just said I was researching a piece." He paused. "But she shut the door on me when I gave her the CD player."
Robertson leant forward like a pointer dog on a scent. "CD player?"
"Oh, didn't I say? That was how I got to see her. Fritz gave me his little CD Walkman thing in the hotel and asked me to give it to her when I got back in London. Said she'd understand. He said the batteries were gone or something and he wouldn't need it again. So I did. Gave it to her."
"And?"
Fielder shrugged again. "Well, when I showed it to her, it was like she'd seen a ghost. But when I gave her the CD she just burst into tears and shut the door on me.
Weird
really."
"What was the CD? Anything special?"
"Nah. Just some old medieval tosh. Boys, Boyce or something. Fancy old rubbish. It wasn't even a new CD. Apparently they'd played it together. Like I said:
weird
. He actually said to me that he wouldn't need it any more and to tell her..."
Fielder
looked at his editor. “What now?”
Robertson sat silent. He breathed heavily.
"And the flat; did you check his flat?"
"Yes. Now,
she
said that Wright had let his flat because he was going away for some time. But it didn't ring true. She was definitely hiding something. And she's scared. I pushed her hard, but she won't budge. Not after I gave her the CD thing. Wouldn't even open the door; and the telephone's on answer all the time."
"What about his flat? Anyone in? Other tenants?"
Fielder
returned to his notebook. 'OK. The flat. His flat. It's occupied now by a Mr and Mrs Randolph Ian Webster."
'In the flat? Already? Who's Webster? But I thought you said that Fritz - Wright? - only intended to be out of the country for a few weeks?"
Fielder looked triumphant. "That's the fishy bit. The girl friend is adamant he's away for some time. The Websters have only been in the flat two weeks. They were very helpful. I mean they were almost glad to see me. Very matey. Almost as if they wanted to tell their story to someone. Come in. Have a cup of coffee. That kind of stuff. Very odd. They were bloody ecstatic to talk; couldn't stop them. 'It was a real snip,' they said. A lease like that, etcetera, etcetera'. And guess where he works - Webster, I mean?" Robertson shook his head. "He's a career diplomat in the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, back now in London. Surprise, surprise."