Percy Crow

by Daniel Kemp

  The lighter was the wrong way round when I entered at six-thirty pm. I checked my computer. The last log-in time corresponded with my own, but the device had also been touched. Since my days in the Army Intelligence Corps I have been in the habit of leaving the tinniest speck of cigarette ash on the power button, after shutting down. It was almost imperceptible, but if seen would have been considered as mere dust. I stared at that button in disbelief. Someone had tried, but failed, to access my private affairs. The button was smudged. I said nothing of the violation to my guest, who arrived promptly.

  “When we last spoke I raised the question about a party thrown at Eton Square way back in 1981, you seemed to remember it well. I wonder if your memory would extend a bit, Nicolás, focusing on two Irish parliamentarians who also attended. Could you help a man researching his ancestors in their dealings with the Irish during those troubled times?”

  “I didn't know that much about them, Harry, other than the most important fact. They both worked for your intelligence community. I'm sure Maudlin would have known that. It must have been the reason for them being there.”

  There was not one single person who knew of Maudlin's inter-relationship with the intelligence services before I brought it to the surface a few years back. Why then did Serena's father say that? The fact that I'd had enough disappointment over women to last a lifetime almost stopped me from pursuing the conversation, but I couldn't leave it there.

  “Care for a walk? I'm afraid we might be a little late for dinner, Nicolás!” He wasn't late, but I was.

  Some twenty-something minutes later I telephoned Sir David Haig using a public phone box on a small private housing estate a ten minute drive from The Hall.

  “You're a genius, Harry. You're on the verge of pulling off the coup of the century! Think the Americans know anything?”

  “No!” I categorically replied, “And it must stay that way, David.”

  Chapter Nineteen: Toxicology

  Patrick Simms, or Micky Pat as he became to be known, died in 1966 as a result of a gunshot to his head. It was believed to be a Mafia drug-related revenge killing, but that was not the case. He was shot dead by an FBI agent on specific orders emanating from an unnamed source within the CIA's Scientific Intelligence Division. Joshua Ryan met his end in similar fashion three weeks later, whilst travelling between Canada and the America shoreline in a private speedboat across Lake Eire. Douglas Simmons then fled to Brazil. The CIA were in the process of cleaning house. In August of that year, after a lengthy prison confinement that only a chosen few knew of, an American Army serving colonel was 'convicted' of supplying US military secrets to the Russians. He knew why those murders had been sanctioned and it was that knowledge that led to his execution by lethal injection at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. He had never been close to any secrets that the Russian wanted, as the tests he was influential in developing were inconclusive.

  The autopsy report from Sir David Haig was not the only medical report I had. Both, though, had Douglas Simmons's handwriting all over them. Toxicology was still in a relatively early stage of development in the eighties and the toxins found in the three bodies that were covered in this analysis could not have been easily correlated to known ones of today. LSD had been identified in quantities far in excess of recognised recreational usage; however, there were levels of Propofol, an anaesthetic agent, three opioids: Fentanyl, Alfentanil and powerful quantities of Sufentanil. There were also the crucial element of Phencyclidine found. Put all these together and you had a hallucinatory painkiller five hundred times more powerful than morphine that when ingested, either intravenously or orally, would have induced hallucinations of gigantic proportions. Any limb or organ could have been taken from a person under this strength of volatile anaesthetic whilst conscious, without them feeling a thing until it wore off. From the units used I calculated the time of anaesthesia to be no more than twenty minutes, then the screaming would have begun. Both fire and time destroy bodily chemicals so I could have been wrong in my estimation, but not in my overall conclusion and prognosis. However, Sir David's report included a huge error on his part. He had left the name of the pathologist who had conducted the post-mortem at the foot of document. Did he do that on purpose, I wondered.

  The medical report I had secured from Broadmoor Hospital, again courtesy of an old army chum, showed that Thomas Crowther had been diagnosed with schizophrenia, constantly refusing to accept the blame for his crimes of arson and murder. Nobody believed him of course, until I did, but my knowledge of Simmons's help in the development of Phencyclidine came too late for Crowther. He died at the hands of a fellow inmate in 1984 aged fifty-two.

  From the early fifties, the US military started a programme codenamed MKUltra. The programme consisted of giving LSD in varying quantities, and by numerous methods, mixed with the newly discovered Sufentanil to unwitting citizens of both America and Canada who had no idea as to its potency. It was called the CIA's mind control programme, coordinated with the Special Operations Division of the U.S. Army's Chemical Corps which the Scientific Intelligence Division oversaw. The experiments they conducted were directed at levels of sustainable torture before death occurred. In the main the CIA used fronts for the research into its capabilities. One of the fronts they used was the instigator of its origination; Douglas Simmons, no less. And the army officer convicted of treason in Kansas; the commanding officer of the experimentation at its concept, was the colonel executed at Leavenworth in 1966. The same person Simmons had contacted at its inception, but not even he knew how Percy Crow fitted into the full picture. It was my belief that was why his name never flagged on Gargantua, the secret CIA mainframe computer, when Katherine whispered his name in shouting out for me. What a conspiracy I had, but where it would all end was still a troubling mystery.

  I had no such confusion at dinner. Serena was declared first gun and her name was inscribed on the annual silver trophy. She was elated, but not so her father. With him I had touched on the subject of Charlie Reilly but there was more to come, a lot more if I was indeed to scoop the coup of the century. The influence of that Panama address had on all of this had also been discussed again, but that was too confusing for a short discussion. I needed more time with Nicolás before anyone else got to him. Serena had other ideas that I had every reason to argue with. That was until after my invitation to visit the wine cellar.

  “Harry, the margin of victory must have been so small it needs never to be mentioned again. Other than when I'm in company and wish to embarrass you so very badly that it hurts. That will happen often unless you give your word that you will come to Milan next month with me. If not I shall post a letter to the Times newspaper declaring you to be an idle good-for-nothing with loose morals and an aim as sure as an elephant's.”

  “I will not be persuade by threats, Seri. I will agree to your outlandish request only if we count the bottles in the cellar right now. I find that so therapeutic when about to be dominated by a woman in my bed.”

  “How many times have you counted them then, Harry? My guess is zero!” She burst into a howl of laughter that I could not stop myself from joining in.

  Minus some of the accompanying wives, and others too exhausted from the day's activities, we played cards, making merry until the early hours of Sunday morning with Serena hosting the gathering with infinite ease and her own uniqueness. I saw the same amount of grace and charm in her as in my mother.

  “You would make a grand Lady Paterson, Serena. I can see you in the ermine now,” I overheard the wife of a good friend of mine say, then add, “I'll grab hold of Harry and whisper in his ear.”

  “If that ever happens the cloth had better be edged in crimple!” Serena joyfully replied.

  Were my misapprehensions misplaced, or did the involvement of her father make it impossible for married contentment to materialise? Introspection was nothing new to me, having indulged in it in some way or other throughout my life, but the deep and anxious consideration of the correctness
of a certain course of action was repellent in my personal affairs. I'd heard it said that searching ones' heart was good for the soul, but soul-searching in the manner I was doing was as painful as it was pointless. I had been taught that all decisions should be based on facts and that was more important now than it had ever been.

  Sunday was as perfect as the previous day had been. Again the birds flew in as many numbers as the day before. George scored his first hit, which I'm not sure if Sophie fully approved of, and both Mrs Squires and Mrs Franks were seen to smile. There were three faces on which a smile was hard to find; Mrs Franks, that of Serena's father and Joseph's, who despite my reassurance had taken full responsibility for the lapse in security. No sign of forced entry could be found around The Hall and I had declined his insistence on police involvemet.

  “Is it someone you know, my Lord, and you won't divulge?”

  Chapter Twenty: Bombs

  According to Anthony Newton the Appendia Corporation had evolved into two separate institutions. In one it had retained that name, concentrating on property investments throughout the world, apparently having an enviable portfolio, worth several billion dollars, so his report read. With the other half, registered as The Panama City Fund, becoming essentially a money laundering centre that attracted huge interest from America. It was strongly believed to be the bank of choice for many drug barons operating through Colombia and other known narcotic havens. It was closed down after George W. Bush sent the American army to invade in 1989, only to emerge again in the capital city of Brazil, Brasília, one year later under the name of The Ryan Investment Group. There were two directors named in its constitution: a Francis Joshua and a Charles Macfarlane. Francis Joshua's name was removed in 1991, the same year that Douglas Simmons disappeared for good. Although Tony had found no transactions listed since the year that Simmons had died, the company was trading today, as CM Banking & Investments.

  The division of the company in 1988 was almost seamless, cleverly done, leaving it impossible to trace the directors of the parent company had you engaged a lesser person than Tony Bishop to investigate, but as they say in life 'you only get what you pay for.' My bill is attached. I hope you find it exceptionally unreasonable. Signed: Grace's husband.

  Having read and reread it, I telephoned Jimmy Mercer. He was not pleased with what he heard nor with my remonstration.

  “Exactly what's the idea of you attempting to hack my computer, old boy? I thought we trusted each other?”

  “Well, so good to hear you, your Majesty, but it wasn't me. I'm here locked onto a phone at four o'clock on a lovely Sunday afternoon around the pool having a family barbecue in good old New York City. Been nowhere near London since that cup of coffee I left you to pay for! Oh no, that wasn't in London, was it! Some godforsaken part of your countryside that smelt of rain and little else, that you chose to drag me into. But hang fire, while I strap on my gaiters and spurs and come and rescue you from the thieving bad guys. Get much, did they, my Lord?”

  “Got absolutely nothing, Jimmy, but what's worrying me is why you tried?”

  “You got a hearing problem, Harry! I told you I didn't do it, but I can't say I'm unhappy to know you might finally have some kind of information worth stealing!”

  “What I have is only speculation at this point. I'm saving it all up until I have something of note, then I'll make a full report. I thought that was the deal.”

  “I'm so far down the road in this game, Harry, I'm beginning to doubt if my department needs the likes of you anymore. You're suffering from amnesia, or something more life damaging. I did point out that Percy Crow's only interest to me is if his ways of damnation threatened the US of A. As nothing lit up when your ex first booted the ball onto the field, and hasn't since, I'm half a mind to pull our budget out of the game.”

  “I'm getting paid for this, am I, Jimmy?”

  “I'm only a poor undernourished follower of JFK's philosophy in not asking but doing what I can for this great nation, but I'm not an ungenerous man when it comes to another's material wellbeing. I expected you to bill me at the closure time of your enquiries, whenever that may be, Harry, plus I owe you a coffee or two. Seem to recall you bought one after we saw the Russian princess. I guess you were, eventually, going to ask about her, my most honourable friend.”

  His animosity in regard to Katherine, was tangible and tactile, as though I had humiliated him personally and I was using Katherine as a shield. Any excuse to lambast me at the drop of a hat, as it were. What I couldn't understand was why. Dislike, envy, yes, but hostility, then no. I had not given any reason for that stance at our meeting, nor knew of any in the past. It was confusing to say the least.

  “I wasn't, but now you so delicately ask, how is the old girl?”

  * * *

  During the years of the Second World War Charlie Reilly's passages to and from America was not entirely curtailed but they were restricted beyond his like. He compensated for this by use of cable and telephone calls through the neutrality that his country had declared from within his Irish Foreign Affairs department, where he filled a small, but important role. He liaised directly with Washington D.C. and the Irish consulate that was there in those days. It was far from difficult for him to pass messages to anti-British supporters and kin, emanating from the IRA. I had no such link as Charlie had in order to reach Katherine without the permission of Jimmy Mercer and the CIA. If both Charlie and Percy were in my position then what occurred during The Emergency would never have happened.

  The Emergency was the euphemism used by the Irish government to cover the war years, and beyond, in which they stayed neutral, but that nearly wasn't the plan at one very important stage. The stage where Charlie leaked Germany's plan of a proposed full scale invasion of the island of Ireland. Case Green, as it was known, was a preliminary document into the feasibility of an occupation of Ireland instigated by Hitler as late as March 1939 but with Charlie's assistance, the details needed for such a mission were completed in double quick time. Charlie had knowledge of a joint military operation aligning Irish forces to Britain, if an occupation of Ireland was ever undertaken by Axis forces. For IRA purposes he disguised its objective of only becoming operational if an invasion was threatening, by intimating Eire's imminent proposal of seeking further assurances from Britain in the light of sections of the Case Green document falling into Southern Ireland's police hands. A German agent was immediately parachuted into Ireland to coordinate Case Green's execution.

  His hope for its implementation was counter-balanced by the Nazis' misgivings in the strength and resolute of the IRA. As their way of proving both, the Republican Army bombed Coventry, England killing five people and injuring over seventy. Plans for similar attacks were drawn up and several other mainland cities were targeted but luckily for the beleaguered population the fuses failed. Next they raided the Phoenix Park Magazine, capturing thousands of rounds of ammunition for their plentiful stock of American manufactured Thompson sub-machine guns. Raids throughout the Republic, and the north then ensued on police stations and Irish army barracks resulting in the vast unwarranted deaths and injury to fellow countrymen. Éamon de Valera, the Taoiseach, head of government, one time leader of Ireland's struggle for independence from the United Kingdom, promptly called for troops that Britain could ill afford deploying, to be sent. Although Charlie and his Republican Army friends' initial plan for German occupation had failed to materialise, it succeeded in tying up some British forces for the duration of the European war. That wasn't the only fortuitous thing to fall into Charlie's lap during those war torn years.

  In 1940, de Valera agreed to the evacuation of some two hundred children from the UK due to the night-time aerial bombing raids over England. Charlie had fodder to supply to other waiting mouths willing to pay for their needs. He carefully hand-picked seven of those innocent children; three boys and four girls, with the assistance of his friends in the Garda. Two of the boys were aged eleven and the third a year older. Of the girls
two were twelve, one thirteen and the other fourteen. Somewhere he'd read that seven was a lucky number. He never passed that fanciful information on, as he interviewed them in the house he had taken over from the Somerset family.

  “Life here is most very different from the land you've left. Here we don't drop bombs from the air, we place them under people's front door mats and blow their fucking legs off, especially if they're English!” Every child shivered on that hot summer's day, standing in the sun-baked pavilion behind the rose garden, not from the embarrassment of being naked with only the leaves of the evergreen hedge between them and an unknown outside world but from the weight of panic.

  “But you lucky lot won't face that predicament as you'll all be working for me. You have a choice to make right here and now. Best you decide right, or you won't be living long to tell of your mistake.”

  Most of the shaking children found the Irish nuance that had adulterated his once almost unintelligible London accent too difficult to follow, the cultured diplomatic dialect had been left in the office where it was more used to being. Here, Charlie was living his tyrannising role, and playing as well as Percy would have wanted him to do.

  “You three boys can choose the church if you want, where all the buggering priests will love you like only they can. If you don't know what buggering means then look it up in the dictionary in the room we've come through. That's if you have the time, but it's not nice, believe me. The girls can go there too, but you'll find no rest from the probing hands of dirty old men and women, and I doubt if it will be only hands that will be doing the probing! You can all choose to stay here and I'll send men and women to play with you. Not cowboys and Indians, nor dolls to push up and down in prams in the garden. No, you will be the toys, acting out every imaginable position for fucking that their evil minds can think of. And if you don't know what any of that means either, then stay here when the rest leave and I'll find someone who'll show you.”