Percy Crow

by Daniel Kemp

  You see, widow Lavinsky's call was intercepted before reaching her electricity company's number and diverted to an impromptu exchange set up an hour before her show so mysteriously tripped out. Alexi Vasilyev, known as Vagabond in the director's general office of the CIA, was the agent who gave Katherine to the Americans, after he had covered her father's disappearance to the Russians, thereby ending any search by Paulo's enemies within the Russian intelligence services or anywhere else come to that. He was the only living source inside Russia who knew beyond doubt that the Mafia had not killed Katherine's father. Paulo's elderly dog and the man known to Harry Paterson as Boris, were another matter; they were expendable.

  Favours are always at least a two way affair, Harry. Sometimes two beget four, if you catch my meaning, Paulo had once said.

  Rudi Mercer, a one-time Alexi's handler, was told of his death at the family home in Boston, Massachusetts whilst sipping an iced tea on the verandah. He didn't shed a tear, but he worried about the reason. He telephoned his son Jimmy and expressed his concerns.

  “That Paulo Korovin is on the move, Jimmy. If I was you I'd draw his file and check back on any sightings anywhere. I never believed he died in the car explosion in Switzerland.”

  “Dad, his name pinged up here louder than the biggest sonic boom ever heard, months ago. I've got that English Harry Paterson chasing his tail over it. Off to see him again soon. I'll pass on your regards.”

  * * *

  Irish sympathisers who donated to Charlie Reilly cause were soon found by the FBI, and through them, the association that Douglas Simmons had with Appendia. Both Percy's name along with Charlie's were left hanging in the margins to the company file at the request of MI6. When Dimitry Posharsky's name popped up in 1993, the computers in Langley suffered a major meltdown, that only the constant attention of specialist team of analysts could prevent.

  Dimitry Posharsky was a pseudonym of the youngest ever member on the Supreme Soviet of the Soviet Union. The holder of the Order Of Lenin; one also known as Paulo Korovin. The same name he'd used in the Middle East when Katherine's mother had been killed by a terrorist bomb in Beirut. As we all know, if you want to change your name then change them both. Paulo hadn't changed either and Paulo never made mistakes, but he did calculate far into the future.

  * * *

  On Paulo's death, the tapes rapidly cooled until Katherine reignited them, sending the warning towers crashing to the pale fawn carpeted floor, putting Langley on red alert, looking for an eighty-year-old former Russian spy walking the earth with slow but deliberate steps, purposely making his way….where, and for what reason? Katherine was the only one who knew where, and she had no wish of telling a soul why that might be.

  * * *

  As I walked to the chapel from the rear of The Hall with George at my side, I asked the question that I had delayed asking through fear of his answer.

  “Is Katherine, your sister, here, George?”

  “She wrote a really lovely letter, Harry, congratulating me, and sending her love to Sophie. She was charming in her apology. Sophie was so looking forward to meeting her that the letter made her cry. I may be in luck though. She added that she's trying her level best to make Milan next week. Oh, and before the occasion takes all my concentration, she said she'd bought an outfit of Serena's from Saks in New York, Harry, a deep red one, with sequins all over it. Said it was extremely expensive but she'd found a lover who was ruffled with money. You must tell Serena, it will make her happy, Harry. She was looking a little pensive yesterday at dinner. Oh and again before I forget. Thanks for paying for our honeymoon in Milan. Now we can take in all the sights as well as attend Serena's fashion show. Very thoughtful of you.”

  Serena had once again called me mean, when I told her of my plans to change Ireland to Italy for George and Sophie to visit. I thought it only sensible. The fact that I would be saving money never entered my mind, I lied to her, with her believing not a word of my excuse. Too many people were getting to know me too well.

  “Strange choice of word, ruffled, George. You sure that's what she had said?”

  “Oh yes! That was the word alright. I asked her to repeat it, as like you I thought it strange.”

  Paulo had commented on Judith's usage of the very same word when we had last met him at the Hotel Baur Au Luc in Zurich.

  “I really would love to meet my sister, Harry. I hope she makes it to Milan.”

  “It would be a thrilling experience for the both of you, George,” I replied, ruffled in thought.

  * * *

  My brother Maurice hadn't spoken more than the curt 'hello' to George since his arrival yesterday afternoon, but after dinner that night voiced many words to me when I met with him and his wife Mary, in the snooker room. The three of us were alone.

  “Don't get us wrong, Harry, we're only thinking of the family name in this. You have no descendants, but we have two daughters bearing the Paterson surname which of course neither of Elizabeth's nor Rose's children do. George may be related to Maudlin but he's no Paterson,” Mary said, as Maurice pocketed a red ball after I had won the toss and broken off.

  She smoked thin, black Turkish cheroots which filled the air with a pungent smell of liquorice overpowering our two cigars. I stood, as she sat, imagining their marriage and how oppressive she must be. I could visualise Maurice, my only brother by blood, being picked to death in his American life as her droning eastern American accent drooled on.

  “You settled millions of pounds sterling on him when you gave up London without a word to me. I wonder if you would have had the courage to have done that had I been here. He was wealthy enough to have bought his own place, yet you chose not to recognise any of your nieces with your benevolence. We will not sit back letting you ride roughshod over them when it comes to selling this place. What I'd like, and Maurice agrees with me, is for you to legally bestow the ranks you now hold, in the family's name, to them when you die, Harry.”

  “Got plans for that day, Mary. Will you wear black gloves, or clap bare-handed in celebration?” Not the courage! The gall of the woman. I was raging inside.

  I potted a red ball, then slammed the black into the pocket nearest her. I'm sure the thud frightened Maurice. Chalking my cue in the way one might slowly sharpen a knife, I addressed my brother, the other side of the snooker table.

  “Have you found the time to discuss this with our sisters either verbally or through letters that you never send me, Maurice? I thought you'd given up on phones or writing paper. Are you searching for your missing courage to address your wife's discourtesy?”

  “The same applies to you as well, Harry. Haven't heard a thing since I wrote after Father's and Edward's funerals expressing our displeasure.” He swirled the brandy in his glass then smelled its perfume as if he could smell my blood.

  “I had the same answer for you then as I do now. It's none of your business what I do with the estate our father left me. You didn't answer my question, old boy. Have either of you spoken to Elizabeth or Rose?”

  “We outlined our proposal to them, Harry.” It was Mary who answered.

  “And what did they say, may I ask?”

  Another red, but I missed the available pink. Nine one to me with Mary trying to even the score using words instead of balls.

  “Neither objected, if that's what you're getting at. I guess they both could see the logic.”

  “Well, you two obliviously can't. The titles of Earl, Lord of Harrogate etcetera, pass to the eldest son on the death of the youngest. It's not something that's transferable because of whims and fancies. Lady Mary is just not feasible, old girl, nor is the title of Lady Carolyn's mother available. Sorry to disappoint your eldest. It's written into the heritage of this family of which I'm now the head, in charge and overall boss. Got it! I would suggest, Maurice, you put an end to your wife's ambitions of becoming an English aristocrat, settling with what you were left in Elliot's will. The Hall, the estate and the name are my concerns and incidentally
I have no plans to die without an heir.”

  Maurice missed his chance. The red bounced out of the shoulders of the pocket he'd aimed for, and my pockets emptied of him and his wife. I replaced my cue in the rack and made for the sitting-room where I knew both my sisters to be.

  “You had better be quick about marrying, Harry, and fathering that fanciful heir, otherwise I might start to take legal advice. Everything can be interpreted in different ways,” Mary said, to my departing back. That bloody word — Everything — was haunting me.

  * * *

  Tanta stood beside the lychgate, sheltering from the September sun. The miles of covered walkways were not needed for rain but a welcome respite from the piercing heat of the late Indian summer. He looked immaculate, reflecting the theme of the day in a white suit with the Northcliffe banner across his chest and a Paterson Squire medallion hanging from his neck. I marvelled at the man's creative invention.

  'He's not just a creative wizard, Harry, the man's an icon within the trade.' I could understand Seri's compliment.

  Matrimonial services within our tribe do not follow modern patterns, but are rooted firmly in the ancient ones. Tradition dictates that the groom escorts the bride to the altar from outside the church, wrapped in his family's embossed cloak. Somehow or other one had been made and Tanta carried it forward to George. The horse-drawn carriage, carrying Sophie, her two ex-school friends who were the bridesmaids, and Serena as maid of honour, stopped just short of the three of us with Sophie walking the few paces for the robing ritual. She looked beautiful, as did Serena. George had eyes for no one else that day. Nor did I. Not even the presence of Fiona could divert my attention away from Serena.

  * * *

  American donating patrons to Irish causes held the attention of more than one director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation for many years, sharing their knowledge generously to interested parties on their own side of globe, but never giving it a passport to travel further afield. Had they shared then a consequence of our forced isolation might never have happened. The only well that Percy could draw water from was Charlie, and that's from whom he learned of the break out from the Maze Prison on the twenty-fifth of September 1983. Four days and thirty-one years before Jimmy Mercer the second's plane touched down at RAF Lakenheath. Had he been in charge back in the eighties he would have made no difference in that respect, but his reactions may well have altered history.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight: Obnoxious Gases

  Percy's bombs, coupled with IRA determination and hatred, were causing anxiety throughout mainland England in the early eighties, no more so than in the capital, London, where everyone felt under attack. Explosive devices were going off on a regular basis and newspapers began reporting threats of bombs being placed on commuter trains following the IRA success in Belfast. The high command of the IRA wanted more after Charlie told of a dinner he'd attended of the Erin go Bragh, Harp Of Erin, annual dinner in New York, where he had been introduced to the American president of the organisation. Charlie and the IRA had benefited from this group of people before, but he had never met its upper tier of pro-Irish supporters and never heard anything like what this man suggested. Charlie had retired from active politics when aged sixty-eight, but was continuing in the role of an advisor to the Irish ambassador in America, living in the embassy in Washington D.C. It was a position that had suited both him and the Irish government. However, a third party now showed a one-sided concern.

  “There is an annual dinner you're attending this coming weekend, where we have a particular interest in its guest of honour. We want to know exactly what he has to offer your warring chums back in Ireland, Charlie.”

  “And why should I tell you that?” Charlie asked the FBI agent walking beside him through Virginia Square, in Arlington.

  “Because if you don't you'll have an accident on the way to Dulles Airport when we deport you home. You'll never see Ireland again.”

  Left with a choice between telling the FBI, or death at their hands, Charlie chose the option to live. That Saturday, surrounded by an array of ambrosial raiment wearing free-spirited donators, Charlie Reilly listened to the latest dealings in death he heard from the mainland of America.

  “I have a friend who knows of a chemical plant in Libya that's producing a nerve gas that your army pals might just like to use against the English. I know that Gaddafi is shipping arms to Ireland, and he intends to increase those loads. All I want is the go-ahead for my man to smuggle away some containers on one of those boats and then all hell can be let loose on London.”

  Charlie passed on this information to his new federal friends and to his Republican Army ones who told him in no uncertain terms to agree to its procurement only on verification of its authenticity. There was only one person who Charlie knew who could do that; Douglas Simmons. And guess who Simmons spoke to? Why, none other than Paulo of course, who knew the plant only too well, having already made his report to the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet who studied every word he told them.

  “Gaddafi, with his influence in Africa, is of significant value to us but not in the development of nerve gasses. He is an unstable man with unlimited ambitions in the area that threatens the whole Middle East. If he succeeds in its manufacture the world will not be a safe place for any of us! The Americans are his enemy, not Russia, but with his capricious mind that could change at any moment. We can buy his friendship for a good while, but his country's destruction by the Americans will seal his friendship for longer. We must get them to use their bombers on Libya to close the factory that threatens us all, then we will reap the blessings.”

  What Paulo didn't know was that there was a shipment already on its way to Ireland. He didn't know that because Douglas never told him. Knowledge cost money and Douglas never gave anything for free.

  * * *

  “Percy, I have great news! The politicos have given the army council permission to use Sarin gas on the London Underground. It's coming from Libya and arriving soon. We need a spectacular diversion to occupy the British forces from looking too closely into fishing boats around the coast at Tralee!”

  “Got anything in mind, Charlie?” Percy asked.

  “I thought you might have an idea, you old lover you.”

  “What about an explosion further up the coast? That would concentrate the navy boats in one place,” he could feel the explosives in his hands.

  “What about a prison break in the north, Percy?”

  “Two diversions at the same time?”

  “Why not?” Charlie was doing handstands in excitement.

  “You'd need to time them well.”

  “Not me but you, Percy! Who's better than you? I'll tell you when the prison breakout is to be. Won't be a while though. At least three weeks, I would think.” Charlie said as he cradled his lover's head, tenderly kissing his thin lips. Love should never die as it ages, not if it's the true variety.

  “We're both getting old, Charlie, there's not much time left for either of us,” gazing up at his lover, Percy disclosed. “When I die I'm going to leave you everything I have, including that photograph of my sister with that bastard prince of England. But there's something else that I've never told a soul about. I have the register; the rent ledger. The one that Montague told me to keep when I was at Grange Manor. It has all the names of the other bastards who did whatever they wanted to all us. I only ever looked inside the once, Charlie. The memory of it all made me so sad. I remembered Rachel and imagined how she must have felt without a soul around that could help her when death came. That's the only time in my life I got drunk. And do you know what, it only took three beers. There is no one I love, or trust, more than you, Charlie. If you are going to take revenge on any of them in that book, you must make sure you live long enough to do it. Get away from those Republican madmen, they will kill you before your time.”

  Charlie lay beside his lover in silent contemplation, his eyes focused on Percy's, attempting to find the right reply to his friend's dec
lared faithfulness, before they would fall asleep. When finally he thought he had the right one he said; “I will never let you die, Percy, not ever!”

  * * *

  The union between the Northcliffes and the Prossers was completed on the exchange of wedding rings in front of the gathered guests inside the chapel and celebrated by the others inside Tanta's marquee, who watched the ceremony on Serena's huge outside television screen. Sophie's face glowed as brightly as the jewellery Serena had given her to enrich her dress. What I first imagined to be a staid personality blossomed into the jocular, mischievous belle of the ball at the reception, noisily celebrating late into the night. George had found a treasure, as had I in Serena. There was another couple at the breakfast who I hoped were also in an exuberant mood.

  “Good of you to come, David. You've made George a happy man and Rosemary's gown has added an extra dimension to Serena's smile.”

  “My pleasure, Harry. That smile cost me a second mortgage. Thought the thing to be made of solid gold at the price.” He smiled and I laughed.

  “I need to ask you a favour, old chap, but it's a two way affair. Willing to share something with you that will put a wider smile on your face.”

  “In that case ask away.”

  “It's my belief that Jimmy was never after Percy Crow, nor the photograph that's clouded people's opinions of the past. I know the name of the Royal that Percy offered on his defection but he was not the fourth man burnt at Grange Manor, David. For now you'll have to take my word on it. You can have that name when everything else is finally over and finished. Jimmy is after the fabled son of my great-grandfather, Tovarisch Sergeyovitch Korovin. He believes he's still alive, and for want of a better reason that I can't find at the moment, he's simply chasing Paulo for revenge of past misdeeds.”