Cut to the Chase

by Ray Scott

  ‘What is it this time?’

  ‘Oh nothing much’

  ‘That’s what you said last time and I had security police chasing me from one end of Jakarta to the other.’

  ‘Well this time you haven’t got to deliver anything or pick anything up.’

  ‘Then what the hell do you want me to do?’

  Bramble pursed his lips, clearly the interview was not going the way he wanted it.

  ‘We have a man based in London, he does some journalistic work, freelance work for…’he named a well known London daily ‘…and they know nothing of his intelligence connections.’

  ‘What the hell is there for us to spy on in England?’ Wallace asked crossly. ‘Does he hang around Lords to see if they’re doctoring the pitch?’

  ‘We just like to know what is going on. England does not always tell us everything….look what happened during the war.’

  ‘Eh?’ This was a common innuendo uttered by anti-Pom Australians, Wallace had no doubt that Winston Churchill’s perfidy would be mentioned in a minute. He decided to let it go and said. ‘So you want me to go around England ferreting out intelligence?’

  ‘No we do not. Just call on the man for a general chat. He knows where places and things are, and he can’t be everywhere at once. If there is something he thinks we should know about then you could possibly have a quick look for him…us. There is, however, one small task you could do for us’

  ‘Like Jakarta?’

  ‘We need to keep some tabs on a man living in England,’ Bramble continued, ignoring Wallace’s pointed sally. ‘He caused us much trouble when he was here, he betrayed classified information and various other things when he lived and worked here and we have reason to believe he may still be active’

  ‘I’ll be damned if I’m getting involved with anything like that again,’ Wallace snapped angrily. ‘The answer is NO!’

  ‘We shall pay you, of course,’ Bramble remarked mildly.

  As the plane banked preparatory for the descent into Heathrow Wallace could see the City of London spread around to the left. The sight of the city, old when Norman William reached it, stirred the blood. From previous visits he could remember the atmosphere that the city generated, of all the overseas cities Wallace had visited only Paris and New York had a similar effect. A mixture of the hustle and bustle, the various streets of all shapes and sizes that ran to no set pattern, the underground railways and the many surface rail termini, together with the vast numbers of buildings of great antiquity in which the history of the nation was enshrined.

  This atmosphere was engendered in both London and Paris and visitors could never fail to be affected by it. With the monarch still living in Buckingham Palace, in London there was yet another link to the country’s past of well over 1,000 years.

  Sydney, it was true, has much of the same atmosphere about it, but of history there is far less, the furthest one could go back in the history of the Australian nation was 1788. In London there were buildings still in use that pre-dated Sydney, in fact some went back to the 1100’s, with excavations revealing foundations of others that went back to Roman times.

  Wallace was not pleased that he had committed to meeting the ASIO or ASIS man in London, it still seemed astonishing to Wallace that Australia should have somebody undercover in London who was officially attached to the High Commission. Apparently his name was David McKay and Wallace gathered he had been in the field for some years.

  He could not recall the name from his clerical sojourn at ASIO but then he was hardly in the area of the James Bond men and would have had little contact with any field staff. Wallace’s expertise had been in counting paper clips and checking that the tea trolley arrived on time.

  The first step would be the hotel, maybe a quick shower and then a quick tour around the city to see some of the sights before turning in. The first priority was to be rid of jet lag; he had no wish to be falling asleep all over the place and at all sorts of odd times during the day, particularly when crossing streets.

  Saul Prosser greeted Wallace enthusiastically as he entered his office, shook him warmly by the hand and escorted him to a chair. It was very late in the afternoon; Wallace had had to thread his way through office workers who were on their way home. Saul’s secretary was also clearing her desk preparatory to departure. She was a middle aged lady of severe appearance, yet Wallace knew from past experience that she had a sweet nature that belied her grim exterior.

  ‘With you in a moment, old son,’ Saul said and busied himself with some papers before dialling on his telephone. ‘Do you like women wrestling in mud?’

  ‘What…Yes…I beg your pardon?’ Wallace stumbled, not sure whether he was speaking to him or not.

  ‘Do you like…hallo James…!’ Saul launched off into a conversation with whoever was on the other end of the line.

  Mud wrestling, Wallace pondered. Well, why not. It would be no worse than some of the other dens of iniquity Saul had dragged him into in past years.

  Saul was about 5’9” in height, fairly broad and with a bald head, with a pair of twinkling eyes that were guaranteed to captivate any lady between the ages of 20 and 60. He had a trace of a northern accent, supplanted by some Cockney as he had been living and working in London for about 30 years.

  He was said to have been more than a useful hooker in his younger days when he played for Harlequins, and had once been considered for England selection. He had married fairly late in life at the age of 35, and had decided to give the game up after breaking his collar bone, three ribs and his left arm during a fracas with London Welsh. He had finished up at the bottom of a scrum that had collapsed after which the game had then degenerated into a brawl. He had been aware of pains in his chest but had played on and then tackled a London Welsh forward as he flung himself over the line for a try. He believed he had broken his collarbone on the forward’s hip, his left arm against the post, while his ribs were maybe fractured during the previous fight. His wife then asserted herself and said ‘No more!’, but after a week or so in hospital and his arm in a sling for weeks Saul’s fervour for further punishment had abated.

  Aside from the noble art of Rugby, his business had suffered badly while he had been languishing in his hospital bed and he had to concede that business took priority, especially as it put bread on the table.

  He had decided to retire, but had then attended the Wales versus England game at Twickenham a few months later and broken his thumb in an argument with a partisan Welshman who had broken his left knuckle on Saul’s head. They had finished up in the same out-patients ward – and the same Magistrate’s court! Apparently they were still communicating with each other via Christmas cards and telephone whenever there was a game on. To Wallace it seemed to be an odd way of making friends.

  ‘I’ve booked you in at the Bonnington…is that OK?’

  ‘Er…yes…OK!’ Wallace replied, hoping that there would be nobody there who may be in one of his audiences over the next few days.

  They had dinner first at an establishment that was very respectable. They went over the arrangements for Wallace’s London engagements and everything seemed satisfactory.

  ‘Did you find out anything about the Society of Asian Commerce?’

  ‘Not a fat lot, except that they pay their bills,’ said Saul. ‘So do the Renown Insurance Company, the Pyramid Metal Group and Woodersons Bank. I’m also having discussions with Barclays Bank who want an entertaining speaker for a dinner they are holding to celebrate the opening of a new branch somewhere in the City.’

  ‘How do I fit into that?’

  ‘Australian, old son,’ Saul raised his glass while his eyes followed a tight skirt as it circumnavigated their table. ‘Barclays are interested in Australia.’

  ‘They were interested in Australia some years ago and opened a few branches, then they pulled out. Are they interested again? They must be mad.’

  ‘Well, that’s for them to work out,’ Saul commented. ‘But as you know ma
ny foreign banks…not that we are foreign of course…’ he added hastily ‘…are now trying to gain licences overseas, not only in Australia, and Barclays are one of them.’

  ‘So you want an address about Australia?’

  ‘Yes, the Australian banking scene, you can throw in something about mining, the flora and fauna, and a few cricket or Rugby jokes will always go down well.’

  ‘Christ! What the hell do I know about banks?’

  ‘History is all that is needed, old son. Call into the ANZ or the National Bank in London, they’ll fill you in.’

  Wallace wasn’t entirely satisfied and muttered into his soup. But he had to agree Saul had worked hard on his behalf, and though these were relatively minor assignments, they paid some of the travelling expenses for a trip that was mainly social. From then on they chatted about other things and examined other tight skirts as they meandered around the restaurant. Wallace idly wondered whether the management employed these girls just to walk around in the vicinity of Saul’s chair to retain his custom.

  The mud wrestling was better than expected, one of the girls was stripped naked by her assailant during the one tussle which brought about cheers from the audience, but it didn’t really do much for Wallace as the mud acted as a skin tight garment. He had expected to see a wholly male audience but was surprised to see a high proportion of the fairer sex present; they seemed to do more shouting at the combatants than the men.

  As a spectacle he had to concede it was exhilarating or maybe it was the Scotch that Saul persisted in pushing in his direction. It was late when he returned to the hotel with the promise of an early morning call from Saul. Saul departed whistling after appropriating two bottles of beer from the refrigerator, his piercing whistle went right through Wallace’s eardrums.

  The next day Wallace made a few phone calls, and checked with Saul ostensibly to see if he’d reached home safely but actually to check whether he had had any more possible dates for him, but he hadn’t. Wallace also rang Christine Norton to see how things were going in Australia and she did have a possible date about three months hence. She said she’d keep him informed.

  Finally Wallace rang an old school friend named Ben Wakefield, they had been at school together in Australia and also members of the same cricket and football clubs, before Ben’s English parents had decided they didn’t like Australia and dragged Ben and his sister Elizabeth back with them despite their protests. Wallace usually contacted him when he was in England, and they still exchanged Christmas cards and e-mail messages. Ben was overjoyed to hear from Wallace, and they left the dates open.

  ‘Anytime, old son,’ Ben said. ‘I’ll be here. Just give me a call when you get here.’

  Wallace had not previously heard of Woodersons Bank but gathered that it was one of the numerous merchant banks that frequented the city whose names were bandied around whenever there was a take-over battle in progress. The occasion was their 150th anniversary so Wallace adapted the address that he had already designed for Barclays and it went down surprisingly well. As he sat down with the applause still ringing in his ears he felt the satisfaction of a job well done.

  After the dinner was over and everyone congregated in groups for general chats, he was surrounded by many who wished to offer their congratulations and to have a brief chat. One of them was a man who looked to be in his early thirties, with piercing blue eyes and a shock of fair curly hair. He hovered around until the last admirer had shaken Wallace’s hand and then he bored in.

  ‘G’day,’ he said, instantly stamping himself as an Australian. ‘Well done. My name is Dave McKay.’

  Chapter 7

  Wallace had shaken his hand warmly and said how pleasant it was to hear an Australian accent before the implications of the name sank in. His face must have registered some disapproval or alarm for McKay grinned broadly.

  ‘I left my cloak and dagger in the reception area,’ he said. ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘At the Bonnington,’ Wallace said without much enthusiasm.

  ‘I’ll give you a call,’ McKay said and turned on his heel. As Wallace glowered after him he turned and gave a cheery wave and a cheerful smile, which Wallace found it hard not to return. His face must have quirked slightly because McKay smiled again and disappeared into the throng. As Wallace turned to talk to Sir Maurice Wooderson he had to admit that for a member of an intelligence organisation McKay seemed a likeable fellow, not like bloody Bramble.

  McKay entered the hotel room and looked around it with interest.

  ‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘Is this on ASIO?’

  ‘Is it buggery!’ Wallace retorted angrily. ‘I’ve paid for this myself, and I’m not a member of ASIO.’

  ‘Indeed? Well Bramble told me…!’

  ‘Fuck what Bramble told you, the man’s a prat!’

  ‘Really?’ McKay raised one eyebrow. ‘We seem to have something in common, a mutual dislike of a third party.’

  Some of Wallace’s enmity evaporated and he waved his hand grumpily at the whisky bottle. McKay poured himself a generous measure.

  ‘I’m not getting involved with any bloody capers like I did in Jakarta,’ Wallace said pointedly. ‘That one took years off my life.’

  ‘Oh?’ McKay raised one eyebrow. ‘What was that?’

  Wallace gave him a brief run down, that Jakarta incident still rankled and he welcomed the opportunity of battering somebody’s ear drums with it and giving his opinion of Bramble.

  ‘There was nothing much to it then!’ McKay commented.

  ‘Oh yes there damn well was, it was bloody frightening at the time,’ Wallace snapped angrily. ‘I’m not even doing it for a living, maybe if I was James Bond I might enjoy being chased by sixteen stone thugs.’

  ‘You get used to it,’ McKay said loftily.

  ‘Oh do you, well here’s one who has no intention of getting used to it or anything like it,’ Wallace rapped out. ‘Oh, don’t bother to ask, just help yourself!’

  ‘Thanks, I will,’ McKay grinned broadly as he poured himself a second glass of whisky. ‘Pity, because we did have one small task for you.’

  ‘Yes I know, Bramble mentioned it to me. Well you know what you can do with it.’

  ‘There will be someone at the Asian Society meeting who lives just down the road from the meeting place. He will probably contact you.’

  ‘What? This doesn’t sound like the job he mentioned.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘As I said, this man will probably contact you.’

  ‘Oh no he won’t, I’m having nothing to do with it,’ Wallace snapped. ‘This is your area, not mine! Why can’t you do it?’

  ‘Because I’d be recognised and you won’t,’ said McKay. ‘In any case, it’s you he wants to speak to.’

  ‘Why the hell should he want to speak with me?’

  ‘You have a mutual acquaintance.’

  ‘Who is that?’

  ‘No idea, he didn’t say. There’s nothing to worry about.’

  ‘That’s what Major Lincoln said in Jakarta. Nothing to worry about, nobody would know who I was. It’ll be a piece of cake. Pigs arse it was and a fat lot of good it did me. I finished up being chased all over Jakarta by hairy arsed security police! Just forget it and piss off!’

  Wallace was quite pleased with the applause, the size of the audience was greater than it had been at the Indonesia – Australia Society in Jakarta, and it went on for about two minutes. He rose from his chair and bowed acknowledgement and then sat down again. The MC indicated to somebody in the audience who then rose and proposed a vote of thanks. This brought forth further applause.

  There was a brief announcement by the chairman, he gave the date of the next meeting and details of the next month’s speaker, gave some information about taking care as they left and the meeting began to break up. There were a few who wished to have further words with Wallace and after about twenty minutes there was just one left. He shook Wallace by
the hand and smiled.

  ‘Mr Wallace, we have a mutual friend.’

  ‘Oh!’ Wallace replied, on his guard at once.

  ‘Yes, you met him briefly at a meeting in Jakarta, and you had a few words with him, he then had to leave somewhat precipitously.’

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘Pardon? What was that?’

  ‘Oh…um…I admit…I mean…yes I remember.’

  ‘He passes on his felicitations and wished me to tell you that he managed to exit the building successfully, and that he is in the best of health.’

  ‘Good!’ Wallace replied and meant it. He didn’t like to think of anyone being in the hands of those Jakarta thugs or any of their associates. Further, if he got away successfully there was less chance of Wallace being compromised.

  ‘I would esteem it an honour if you would care to come with me to my apartment. It is only just down the road.’

  ‘I…er…!’ Wallace hesitated and then subjected the other man to a searching examination. He was a grey haired man with a brown complexion, clearly Asian, probably Indian in origin, and he wore rimless spectacles. He had a look about him that seemed sincere and honest. Further, what was it that McKay had said about the contact living just down the road from the meeting place? ‘Yes all right.’

  When they had reached his apartment and he had offered Wallace some coffee, he still appeared to be a sincere and honest man, but after the experience in Jakarta Wallace was still wary of anyone, however affable he appeared. There was a map of the former East Indies on the wall and a painting on the wall that had a definite Indonesian look about it.

  ‘You didn’t seem to be pleased to see me at the Society.’

  ‘No’ Wallace admitted. ‘I was not. When I was in your country I became involved in something that I knew little about and resolved that I would have nothing to do with anything similar in the future.’

  ‘A praiseworthy sentiment,’ he nodded approvingly. ‘I wish that I could say the same, but it is different for me, it’s my country.’