The Fall Guy

by Ritchie Perry

  The Fall Guy

  Ritchie Perry

  © Ritchie Perry 1981

  Ritchie Perry has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1981 by Ballantine.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Charles Pawson sat at the desk in his office off Queen Victoria Street, paying more attention to the rumble of the London rush-hour traffic outside than to the pile of reports in front of him. As head of SR(2) his life alternated between periods of hectic activity, when the resources of the department were stretched to their limit, and periods of drab routine, as mundane as in any branch of the Establishment. For the moment business was slack, something which accounted for Pawson’s boredom. The SR in the department’s title stood for Special Responsibilities, while the numeral had become a meaningless appendage, merely serving to eliminate any chance of confusion with a popular brand of toothpaste. Originally, when a late, little-lamented Home Secretary had had his brainwave, there had been an SR(1) section as well, but this had been a short-lived experiment, soon being swallowed and digested by Pawson’s predecessor. Now SR(2) stood alone, basically an adjunct to the police, operating where Special Branch, Interpol and other more regularly constituted forces were unable to go. Pawson was responsible only to the Minister and his brief wasn’t to amass evidence for the benefit of judge and jury. It was to cut out cancers which had refused to respond to less drastic treatment. In his morbid moments Pawson saw himself as the successor to Pierrepoint, only, instead of a rope, he used the SR(2) operatives, a not so select band of highly trained assassins. In his more cheerful moods he admitted that this was only a small part of the picture, that the department played a not insignificant role in national security, but usually he gave the matter no thought at all. He had been given a job to do and this he did to the best of his ability.

  For the time being he was simply bored and the prospect of a visit from Superintendent Davies, a member of the Drug Squad at Scotland Yard, did nothing to brighten his day. He had no need for a crystal ball to guess what the visit presaged and, initially, he’d been tempted to fob off the superintendent with some excuse about overwork. Then other considerations had combined to change his mind, not least among them being his uncomfortable awareness of the impending annual appropriations review. With the grisly memory of the Czech Trade Mission still to be eradicated, it was the time of year to rake in all possible kudos.

  The reports pushed to one side, Pawson glanced at his watch, swearing under his breath when he saw his visitor was overdue. Restless, he crossed to the window to shoo away the pigeons which were the bane of his life, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the white droppings on the sill. Five minutes later he was still standing there, gazing down at the people in the street, when the intercom buzzed. Unhurriedly he returned to his desk.

  ‘Superintendent Davies has arrived, sir,’ his secretary informed him.

  ‘About time,’ Pawson commented sourly. ‘Give me a couple of minutes, then send him through.’

  Sitting down, Pawson switched on the small tape-recorder concealed in the top drawer of his desk, a precaution he employed with every caller but one he considered especially necessary in his dealings with the police. Years of experience had taught him they were almost as devious as politicians. When his secretary ushered in the superintendent Pawson was puffing at his pipe and he used the smoke to screen his swift appraisal of the policeman, a tall, raw-boned man in his forties with a shock of carrot-red hair. Without rising to his feet, Pawson motioned him to a seat on the far side of the desk. He was a firm believer in establishing authority from the very start.

  ‘Well, Davies,’ he said brusquely. ‘What dirty work have you brought me this time? I suppose your boys have made some horrible balls-up and you expect me to clear up after you.’

  The approach was one which seldom failed to work with policemen and, to Pawson’s considerable amusement, the superintendent’s face reddened. Going cap in hand to the head of SR(2) was not a task for which senior police officers competed.

  ‘It isn’t like that at all, sir,’ Davies protested, visibly restraining himself. ‘We’ve a case on our hands at the moment which we feel is more in your line of country. That’s all.’

  Pawson’s smile wasn’t designed to smooth ruffled feathers.

  ‘What a beautiful euphemism,’ he murmured. ‘Do elucidate.’

  ‘It’s the cocaine business,’ Davies persisted doggedly, doing his best to ignore the sarcasm. ‘We’d like you to take over the foreign end of the investigation. We’ll attend to the distributors here in the United Kingdom.’

  Pawson swivelled round in his chair so he could look out of the window at the shorthand typists in the office block across the street.

  ‘I see,’ he said, his back half turned to Davies. ‘What progress have you made so far?’

  ‘Not a great deal,’ Davies was forced to admit. ‘We’ve made several arrests but they’ve all been small fry. Pushers and middlemen.’

  Turning back to him, Pawson picked up a pencil and examined the point. He was finding the interview far more diverting than he’d anticipated.

  ‘How about the other end?’ he asked, keeping his eyes on the pencil. ‘Do you know where the cocaine is coming from? Or how it’s being brought into the country?’

  ‘Not really,’ Davies answered, flushing again. ‘We know the source is in South America and we’re positive the cocaine is coming into Britain by ship but that’s all. I appreciate it isn’t a great deal of information to work on but…’

  Davies shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

  ‘Surely Interpol or local police forces must have turned up with more than that?’

  ‘Interpol has its limits,’ the superintendent said, speaking with more confidence now he was back on safer ground, ‘and South America is one of them. To operate really efficiently it relies on well organized, cooperative national police forces. South of the United States border they’re in extremely short supply. In fact there’s so much bribery and palm greasing nearly all the forces are corrupt from top to bottom. The men behind the cocaine smuggling are operating on a large scale, so large they’re bound to have plenty of police connections. They’d almost certainly learn of any move against them through the local police before it had a chance to leave the ground. That’s no good to us. We’re not interested in stopping the traffic for a few weeks. We want it completely disrupted, otherwise the whole operation is pointless. If possible we’d like SR(2) to roll up the entire organization, all the way from the source of supply to the port of embarkation. Once that’s done the problem over her virtually disappears.’

  A thin smile appeared on Pawson’s face, a danger signal to anyone who knew him well. He stopped toying with the pencil, for the first time looking the policeman straight in the eye.

  ‘In other words you’re asking me to undertake illegal activities on foreign soil,’ he queried coldly.

  ‘You’re phrasing the proposition very harshly,’ Davies blustered, taken aback by the new line of attack. ‘Surely nearly every mission you undertake abroad is technically illegal.’

  ‘I’m not denying the fact,’ Pawson said glacially, inwardly delighted by Davies’s alacrity in rising to the bait. ‘I was
merely trying to fathom police mentality. You actively encourage interference in territories abroad but when you unearth similar activity in this country you scream blue, bloody murder. I can just imagine the Yard’s reaction if it was by-passed by a foreign law enforcement agency. By the FBI, say. It was bad enough when one of my men borrowed a member of that Czech trade delegation for a few hours.’

  In Pawson’s profession it was criminal negligence not to kick an opponent when he was down. Davies wasn’t exactly an opponent but Pawson intended to kick him just the same.

  ‘Anyway,’ he continued, when Davies offered no defence, ‘I’m prepared to do as you ask, although I naturally can’t guarantee results. There is one condition, though.’ Pawson paused for effect, allowing Davies to wince in anticipation. ‘I not only want complete, independent control of the foreign end of the operation, I must also insist that the police make no move in this country without my prior authorization. There has to be a co-ordinator and I intend to make it my job, not Scotland Yard’s.’

  Having delivered his ultimatum Pawson sat back and watched the superintendent’s evident discomfiture with cynical detachment. Try as he might Davies couldn’t conceal his confusion and resentment.

  ‘I don’t know about that, sir,’ he objected. ‘It is primarily a police matter.’

  ‘If you remember, this was precisely the point I was endeavouring to make earlier,’ Pawson said sweetly. ‘I’m afraid it’s the price you’ll have to pay for my cooperation. In fact until your superiors agree to meet my request, I refuse to commit a single one of my agents. I don’t want the right hand not knowing what the left is doing and in this partnership SR(2) will definitely be the right hand.’

  *

  The air-conditioning was out of order and they were lying with the sheet thrown back, their bodies well apart. Mary was asleep, tendrils of blonde hair sticking damply to her forehead, one hand cupped chastely over her groin. Enviously Reece wondered how the hell she managed to sleep in the almost insufferable heat. It was just his luck she had to live in Belem, not in Rio, Sao Paulo, Montevideo or even Buenos Aires, somewhere civilized instead of a festering port at the mouth of the Amazon. He was the only permanent SR(2) agent south of the Amazon and east of the Andes, with literally millions of women to choose from, yet he’d had to plump for an Englishwoman living in one of the most uncomfortable cities in the Americas. And she was married. Reece was brooding about this, wondering where he’d made his mistake when the telephone beside the bed rang. Drowsily he lifted the receiver.

  ‘There’s a call from London for you,’ the hotel telephonist told him.

  Nervously Reece glanced at Mary, who was still asleep beside him, apparently undisturbed by the noise.

  ‘Hold the line for me,’ he said quickly. ‘I’ll take the call downstairs.’

  Hastily he pulled on his shirt and trousers before slipping out of the room. To Reece’s mind the call could only mean trouble. Pawson was the one person who knew where to contact him and this was the first occasion in three years that he’d resorted to direct communication. There was an anxious five minutes’ wait, then Pawson was put through.

  ‘I’m beginning to think you must have a fancy woman in Belem,’ Pawson said by way of introduction. ‘This makes your fifth visit in the last six months.’

  ‘I don’t come here from choice, sir,’ Reece responded, not wholly untruthfully. ‘It’s all in my reports.’

  ‘I know. That’s why I’m wasting the taxpayers’ money by phoning you. The Brazilian cocaine trade is hardly our line of country.’

  The conversation had already taken a nasty turn, making Reece sweat far more than the temperature warranted. He’d known his repeated trips to see Mary were a mistake but he’d thought he’d covered his tracks rather neatly. Now he knew better. A written reprimand would have meant nothing, a personal phone call from Pawson quite possibly meant the end of his attachment to SR(2).

  ‘I disagree, sir,’ he protested, more than a hint of desperation behind the words. ‘When you posted me here you told me South America was a backwater. You said the only way to justify my presence here was to use my intuition, to investigate things which weren’t of obvious interest to the department but which I felt might have some significance. That’s exactly what I’ve been doing here in Belem.’

  Reece stopped, aware that he might just as well have admitted that he came to Belem to see Mary. Even to his own ears the story had sounded painfully thin.

  ‘Excuse me for being obtuse,’ Pawson said, not making things any easier, ‘but perhaps you’d care to explain the significance to me.’

  Reece took a deep breath and marshalled his thoughts.

  ‘Until recently,’ he began, ‘nearly all the cocaine reaching the eastern seaboard of the United States was shipped out through Belem. The coca leaves grew, and still grow in the foothills of the Andes. They were roughly processed on the spot, then shipped down the Amazon and out through Belem. Naturally the Americans objected to this and they’ve put increasing pressure on the Brazilian authorities to take some action. As a result the cocaine traffic has reduced to a trickle, both out of Belem and into the States. This interested me because it stood to reason that the cocaine must be going somewhere else. The coca leaves grow wild and don’t need any cultivation, the processing is relatively simple compared with heroin and the profits are fantastic. If the cocaine wasn’t being sent to the States the obvious alternative market was western Europe, including Britain. I started my investigation to find out whether my suspicions were correct.’

  ‘And were they?’ Pawson prompted. ‘Is there anything you can add to your last report?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ Reece admitted unhappily. ‘All I’ve learned is that the coca leaves are being flown out to the south now instead of going down the Amazon by boat.’

  There was a silence, a silence costing God knew how many pounds a second. With the receiver clutched clammily in his hand Reece waited for the axe to fall and Pawson’s next words took him completely by surprise.

  ‘Luckily for you your suspicions were correct,’ he said. ‘The cocaine is coming into Britain in large quantities.’ Pawson paused. ‘The trade has to be stopped. You’re to return to base in Sao Paulo and be ready for further instructions. Meanwhile I’m activating all observers. Once I know where the coca leaves are being flown to you’re in business. It’s high time you started earning your salary.’

  *

  Among the men who received Pawson’s memorandum from London was one called Jim Peters, although to everyone in Porto Alegre he was known as Otto Schmidt, owner of the Scheherazade restaurant. Short, squat and unprepossessing, his swarthy complexion and Zapata moustache gave him the appearance of an English stage spy. In Brazil they meant he could pass unnoticed where other north Europeans were singled out immediately. By rights he should have had an administrative post in London and it had been his own choice to enter semi-retirement in Porto Alegre. He was a man with an obsession. During the war, although not a Jew himself, he had infiltrated one of the Polish concentration camps, helping to organize escape routes and collecting evidence against the German officers in charge. In the line of duty he had lived the life of a Jewish prisoner, never knowing whether the next day would be his last. He emerged, after the Russian liberation of the camp, several stones lighter in weight and possessed of a loathing for the Nazis no Jew could match. For the next three years he had worked in West Germany tracking down fugitive war criminals, unrivalled in his dedication. When Pawson’s predecessor had suggested a transfer to London Peters had refused point-blank, saying he intended to settle in one of the regions of South America where the major ex-Nazis were thought to have fled. Even now, twenty-five years after the end of hostilities, he retained close links with Israeli intelligence as well as with SR(2) and had played a minor role in the capture of Eichmann. Pawson was fully aware of the connection and raised no objections. Even if Peters was seldom called upon, his experience as an agen
t made him too valuable an observer to lose.

  Peters read through the memorandum in his office at the rear of the restaurant, only half-aware of the clatter of pans and sizzling of fat in the kitchen next door. He’d been in the business far too long to need a code book in order to decipher the directive. When he’d finished reading, the instructions fully absorbed, he slumped back in his chair, thinking hard. In the twenty-odd years that Porto Alegre had been his home Peters had cultivated a wide range of acquaintances and something a fellow restaurateur had let slip a few weeks previously nagged at his memory. For several minutes he debated whether or not there could possibly be a link with the subject of Pawson’s concern. He didn’t want to raise a false alarm, yet at the same time it would be negligent of him not to follow up the information. In the end Peters decided on a compromise. Pulling a notepad towards him he wrote: ‘RE YOUR TELEX HAVE POSSIBLE LEAD STOP TRAVELLING TO RIO GRANDE TOMORROW STOP FULLER REPORT WILL FOLLOW SCHMIDT.’ Working faster now the decision was made, he coded the message on to a telegram blank, addressing it to a small import-export company in Sao Paulo. From there it would be telexed to SR(2) headquarters in London.

  *

  As Peters entered the room Biddencourt rose from behind the desk, extending his hand in greeting.

  ‘Otto!’ he exclaimed. ‘What brings you to Rio Grande? I didn’t expect to see you for at least another fortnight.’

  ‘I had other business down here so I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone,’ Peters explained, sinking into a seat. ‘I don’t like this god-forsaken hole enough to come here more often than’s absolutely necessary.’

  For half an hour the two men talked business, calculating the amounts of fish likely to be required at the Scheherazade during the following weeks. On the point of leaving, as an apparent afterthought, Peters asked if he could use Biddencourt’s phone. It was a simple task to transfer the tiny, magnetic microphone-cum-transmitter from the palm of his hand to the base of telephone.