A Covenant of Spies

by Daniel Kemp

  I left his denouncement unanswered, hiding my astonishment at his comprehension of an operation that had consumed my and Fraser's energy and deliberations for a considerable time by signalling for my club account to sign, then asking a question myself that was away from the subject he had brokered. He had shocked me with the disclosure of Henry Mayler's name, and the region of Turkey he had mentioned had been discussed exhaustively five or so years ago with an Assyrian billionaire and Samuel Rothschild, a relative of Hannah's. Kudashov had covered enough today without the need for opening up another subject on the periphery to the eugenic programme underway and the Data Mining of the NSA. Mayler could wait his turn.

  “My wife tells me you were implying that I might have had something to do with a body that was found in Prague. Dalek Kava was the name you mentioned and I'm at a loss to know why you would associate a dead body with me?”

  His derisive laughter reminded me of Fraser's characteristic laugh when in possession of knowledge of which he knew I had a little, but he more, and aware of how he'd loved to educate me further. Kudashov's supercilious manner was more practised than Fraser's, as his grin lasted far longer than my friend's.

  “I was the head of the Municipal Police in Prague for a good while, Patrick. I still have many friends there. It sounds to me that your intelligence system is in need of an urgent overhaul if you haven't got that on file. In that capacity I had very few dealings with the StB, but when I did, I think I was useful to this country of yours. Yes, an unrecognisable corpse was found earlier this month by a dredger working the River Vltava, as it does every August without exception. When I was told of the body, I remembered how Jana Kava had been questioned over her brother's disappearance and suddenly it all fell into place.” It was my turn to laugh, which I did with great gusto, causing some club members' heads to turn in our direction.

  “Wow, now who's speculating? That's one huge accusing step into the unknown. To start with, how can you know it's Dalek's body?”

  “That was quite simple. I contacted my friend from the science laboratory, Patrick; she ran the DNA and found him.”

  “And what do you know of Jana Kava?” Hannah wanted an answer.

  “Very little now, Mrs West. I lost touch with her when London moved her to Poland. I think it was before the riots in that country, maybe July or early August '82, but it could have been late June. It's a long time ago, but when she was relocated, I'm sure I was still with the police in Prague. But wasn't it very close to when you hurriedly left Czechoslovakia? I would have thought you'd know more of Jana Kava's service life than me, Patrick, including her movements.”

  This time it was a quizzical look he used to express volumes of his apprehension in my intelligence department's knowledge which, fortunately, my answer appeared to put an end to as our conversation drifted on to Cilicia's position in Moscow Centre and the high ranking official she was involved with, and his expected reaction to her departure.

  “He will probably order the launch of several intercontinental missiles, but luckily for us he does not have the launch codes, Patrick.”

  * * *

  Hannah met Michael Simmons at Group's headquarters in Lavington Street, at the Borough in South London later that Tuesday afternoon and started to download all they could access on Jana Kava, Ivy, and Petr Tomsa. In order to get the information to me without anyone at Vauxhall being aware of it, they sent it in encrypted form via Sir Philip Noble, whom I had appointed to the job at the Auxiliary Intelligence Service in Greenwich when the previous DG moved on.

  Sir Philip was an old friend from my Oxford days. He sent the files to a grumpy acquaintance named Adam, the senior administrator for all that originated through, or was sent to, Group. If anyone could hide encrypted computer information, then he could. It was not that I distrusted anyone in the wider Intelligence Service, there was no reason for that. I simply wanted to keep it to a small body of people for now and in that way keep things quiet in case it all went wrong.

  Adam was the man who knew everything about everyone. He was the one who hid everything from those who didn't need to know what he knew, and said nothing to those in the know or out of the know. He was the one-man distribution hub when I was at Group. He was true to form when I contacted him with an outline of my scheme of events.

  “Why the effing 'ell is the head of everything that's holy channelling ancient files addressed to himself through someone as lowly as me? I can understand you wanting my great lord at the gold-plated, top-notch, effing money-swallowing Greenwich facility to endorse what you're up to, but not using dear Adam to hide the bloody info. Why don't you just lock up everyone there is until you find who's guilty of stealing the toilet rolls from the F&C bathroom and then send them on the next clipper to Australia?” He stopped a moment for breath before slightly changing his tone. “Can I have peek inside one or two of these folders before I hide traces of them for you? Just for old time sake, eh, Ezra old chap?”

  My biblical name of Ezra was from my street days when I was attached to Group. Five years had passed since those days, but no matter how many years were to float away on The Thames, I would always be on-the-spy Ezra to grumpy Adam. When I said no to his request, I was entertained to an abusive selection of words that reflected his abhorrence of rejection that, if recorded in script, would scorch the paper they were written on. Adam was a good sort. The trouble was, he knew it.

  Chapter Nine: Peaceful Countryside

  Fraser was sitting at his desk, staring at the computer screen in front of him when I arrived mid-morning on Wednesday, having left Whitehall in Hannah's more than capable hands. I wasn't expecting any communication from Sir John Scarlett at the Box, Vauxhall Cross, but if we had inadvertently ruffled his feathers, then I knew I could depend on Hannah having the perfect riposte for any questions he might have. As I closed Fraser's stout office door and was on my way to gather up the whisky decanter and a glass before sitting in one of the comfortable sofas and pouring myself a very large glass of agreeable Scotch, he turned to face me and loudly proclaimed, “Nothing!”

  “Yes, nothing,” I grumbled in reply. “We have legends galore on Ivy as Ivy or as Kudashov, but not a grain on Tomsa other than the name printed at the top of two blank reports. Why would that be? There is no name on the report of Jana Kava going missing on the first of September '82 in Gdańsk, Poland. Again, no name of who reported her as never showing up for a debrief after the riots. That intel must have originated from her last handler, but whoever that was, it wasn't Kudashov or Tomsa. I don't like the way it's stacking up, Fraser,” I declared as he lifted his own glass of whisky in a sign of greeting.

  “At least we can have a stab at where Kudashov's science lab assistant might have got Dalek Kava's DNA now. And Kudashov doesn't know she's dead? Come on!” he exclaimed. “Are you of the same opinion as I am—this mysterious laboratory is somehow connected to this missing information in these case files?”

  “For the moment, yes I am. Which means we have a lot of digging to do and we have another conspiracy on our hands. All we can do is hope this one does not go higher than the old seventh floor,” I solemnly replied with a deep sense of foreboding.

  “I'm seventy-seven now, Patrick, against your—what is it, fifty-eight? Of those seventy-seven years, at least fifty were spent in various capacities inside our external intelligence service. I worked for departments that had sub-departments, sections, regional desks and outside branches. I served on the nineteenth floor for two years at Century House. I even attended meetings on the top floor when old Dickie Blyth-Smith was the Director General. Anyway, apart from all that historical trip of mine, there are several classified divisions of staffing that can only be opened with your signature, along with that of the Director General of MI6 and that of the serving Prime Minister. We have to open this inquiry up to Sir John Scarlett. If for no other reason than my theory about Jana Kava and Petr Tomsa being the same person is gaining ground every time I think of it. We also need to find out wh
o was the duty officer on the Russian Satellite desk when Miles Faversham told you of Petr Tomsa. Human error cannot be ruled out of course, but until we have some names then we're stuck.”

  “Not completely! We have Kudashov knowing that Jana Kava was posted to Poland.”

  “Yes, we have that and we can gain some traction there, but we need the name of who posted her and who was her Control officer in Poland. Also, we need to know if Kudashov really did stay on in charge of the local police in Prague when she left.”

  * * *

  The Prime Minister was in Washington, DC, where he was spending more and more of his time of late. The lack of evidence of WMD in Iraq, or anywhere near that country, beyond the weapons of annihilation that Fraser and I had discovered, had led to a great deal of speculation into his suitability to continue as the Head of Government in the national press, as well as questions on the subject inside both Houses of Parliament. The atmosphere between the security services and the PM's office was not good. Some heads of departments had been coerced to agree with government spin-doctors that WMD had existed, but were destroyed before the war began; others knew the truth.

  My name and position in the SIS was not known outside of Whitehall, nor was there any knowledge of those weapons Fraser and I had unearthed known beyond specific government posts, and I was under a strict code of conduct never to react to newspaper reports, as were the Director Generals of MI5, MI6 and GCHQ, who were similarly restricted in comment. However, the PM, and those close to him, resented his intelligence community and did all they could to belittle them in damning innuendos leaked to the press. I was particularly disliked within the plethora of government spokespersons, but the feeling was mutual with me being a lot less diplomatic than them.

  The anthrax-loaded artillery shells Fraser and I had discovered in the Straits of Tiran and the phosphorous shells and artillery pieces overlooking a garrison of American troops in Afghanistan, were hardly the Weapons of Mass Destruction that the United States and our government alleged Saddam Hussain was targeting the West with, but attempts were being made in Whitehall to allow that information to be leaked to the press. I was not the only one to believe the WMD did not exist and this was merely an effort to cover some people's backs. I had the power to impede the disclosure by redacting all the files that covered that exercise of discovery. That I did, but not without consequences.

  * * *

  Between the intelligence communities of the United States and ourselves, the endeavours of the eight would-be world-controlling families in what Fraser had named as the Circle of Eight, to influence and then control world opinion at the start of the Iraq War, had been squashed and obliterated. Henry Mayler, the man behind the threat those weapons had represented, was no longer alive to endanger the world. Despite this, the administrations of this country and the US had no other choice than to continue down the hole they had dug, searching for a negative and shouting down those who said WMD never existed. The weapons that were in the redacted file could have given some validity to the government's claims, but not after I got to them. Even so, we could do nothing to impede the invasion and occupation of Iraq that went ahead as detailed inside the corrupted CIA Gladio B file Fraser Ughert had found. However, it was there that the plans of this Circle of Eight families had been stopped, or at least for now they had.

  * * *

  Fraser was right, I could no longer exclude Sir John Scarlett from our investigations, if only to get hold of the information on the staffing at Century House in 1982 we needed. At the same time, I did have concerns about the length of time it would take to get the PM's signature. That fear did not materialise. I had reason to marvel at the speed my request was sanctioned by the Prime Minister's office as the evidence I'd given in camera to the Hutton Inquiry in August 2003, concerning the sudden death of Dr David Kelly, a world respected authority on biological warfare employed by the British Ministry of Defence, I was reliably told had not 'pleased' the government, and I was further informed that my name was no longer included on any 'cocktail party list'. I didn't cry when I was told that news.

  Within the circles I moved in, it was decided before the inquiry sat that Dr Kelly's death was to be registered as a suicide and, then after, I had given my sworn affidavit it was decided that evidence related to the death, including the post-mortem report and photographs of the body, should remain classified for seventy years. When this was announced to the press, it caused widespread conjecture that the government was concealing evidence of some kind. They had a right to question the government on that decision. I was called before a Civil Service inquiry and asked to elaborate on what I had told the Hutton committee in confidence. As it was held in private, I refused. I believed that no one at Number 10 forgave me for my part in the Hutton Inquiry, but as governments along with Prime Ministers come and go on a fairly regular basis, but Director Generals of the intelligence gathering service and, especially the incumbent chairman of the joint intelligence committee are immune to such whims, I wasn't bothered in the slightest.

  What I did find difficult to live with was the name of Miles Faversham's boss at the Russian Satellite desk he manned after reading those staffing files: Lieutenant Colonel Jacob Ward. I looked him up. Ward was an American CIA operative. Nowhere on his partially hidden service record was there mention of him in charge of a department inside MI6. This was going to be a hell of a deep mystery to unravel.

  * * *

  “I have Hannah working with the Foreign Office trying to discover whatever there is on American personnel seconded to military defence intelligence in 1982 and then being handed a seat at a desk in Century House. I'm also wondering if this Jacob Ward brought his own American staff. Were we running alive with CIA agents? I would have imagined he'd need some familiar faces around but, if we had been smart, we would have slipped someone a bit sharp in there. Did you have any unusual dealings with the Ministry of Defence in or around the date I was in Prague, Fraser?” I thought it to be an innocent enough question; however, it turned out to be anything but.

  “Not in May 1982, no, but I was thinking about your time on the Czechoslovakian operation a moment ago. Further into the summer that year I was the liaison officer between Group and the Ministry Of Defence. At the time there was huge unrest and uncertainty in Poland and many of the surrounding Warsaw Pact countries. It all came about after the founding of the Solidarity Trade Union in the Lenin Shipyard in Gdańsk, two years previously under the leadership of Lech Wałęsa. For a couple of years, the Soviets instructed the Polish government to watch and see what might happen without forcibly closing the trade union down. They gathered names and did what they do best, threaten to kill, then sat back and waited for it to wither and die. Except this time was different; it grew in size both inside Poland and beyond.

  “The time it all started to boil over coincided more or less with you being in Prague. The Polish government had tried to abolish the movement and calm things down by installing martial law at the end if the previous year, but that hadn't worked. When the trade union proposed to hold massive demonstrations, the Russians ordered their Polish subordinates to mobilise the army and dispatch tanks to quell any riots.

  “President Reagan was supporting the breakaway unionists with rhetoric and bags of money. He had the CIA deeply involved in Poland, on the ground and through diplomatic channels. They were stringing at least one senior officer of the Polish General Military staff that we knew of, and it was the CIA who influenced the decision of the ruling government to declare martial law. In Washington that was seen as a better alternative than the Poles inviting the Soviet Union to send troops to intervene. I believe you were in Poland by the time all this was starting to hot up, Patrick?”

  “Yes, I was there when it all kicked off very badly in Warsaw. My orders to travel out there came in late July and I can tell you the exact date as well; it was the 29th. I know the date as it was my birthday. I'd only been home a few weeks before I got the recall signal. I was thirty-three t
hat year and living every moment as if it was my last. And to be truthful,” I was smiling as I recalled the moment, “the following day might well have been my last had not those travel papers arrived at my apartment by courier. I was in bed with a married woman, but not just any married woman. Her husband was a very close friend of Charlie Richardson, the South London equivalent of the Krays. But his wife was worth the risk.

  “If I remember correctly, the main demonstrations took place on the last day of August 1982, by which time I was well settled into the legend London had given me—working for what was then Beechams Pharmaceutics Company extolling their products to the Polish chemical industry and government departments. The brief I was given was to get some microfilm on a new encrypted radio coding the Polish military were using out of the country. I met with my mark as news broke of a student being shot not far away from where we were. It already seemed as though all the security service, the Esbecja, were concentrated on demonstrations, but when the news of the shooting broke, order was thrown out the window. The Esbecja cracked down everywhere they discovered more than two people together. It didn't take much for them to start piling into people, swinging their batons at anything that moved. In Warsaw the tension had been building for days, with propaganda broadcasts both for and against Solidarity supporters. The threats the Polish government were making sounded real to me. Some of that disruption went a long way in helping me. I made the meeting point without fuss and the exchange went sweet as a nut. I left the country on the Monday when the disturbances in the capital had quietened down, but the nervousness was still tangible enough.”

  “Were you made aware of what it was London gave you to give away for the exchange of this microfilm?”

  “A big paper envelope stuffed with dollars, Fraser. I saw it counted, sealed, and sent via the diplomatic bag. When I picked it up at the embassy, it was counted again and I signed for ten thousand dollars.”