The Conduct of Major Maxim

by Gavin Lyall

  Sladen cleared his throat. "I think we can take it that a representative of the Security Service was regarded as, ahh, fundamental."

  "I was solely concerned with the need to know," Husband said with deep sincerity.

  Nowthere I believe you, Agnes thought. There is something my service needs to know which you don't want us to.

  "If there are no other objections," Sladen was carefully not looking for any, "then I think we can proceed with the meeting as it is currently constituted. Now could we -"

  "If it comes to that," Sir Bruce rumbled, "I've no clear idea why I'm here myself. Nor," he added, "why that young man is." He smiled lazily across at the second man from Six, directly opposite.

  Sladen sighed. "We hope, Sir Bruce, that you might keep a watching brief on behalf of Major Maxim, and indeed the Army as a whole… Mr Sims, also from the Intelligence Service, has specialised knowledge which could help us when we get into more detailed matters. "

  Mr Sims, if that was his real name, dressed not so much snappily as very cleanly. His dark blue blazer looked as if it was brand new, as did the white shirt with a very faint grey stripe and the steel blue tie. He was in his middle thirties, his square tanned face set in a permanent appreciative smile, dark hair cut neat and fairly short. Although he chain-smoked menthol cigarettes, his hands – remarkably small hands – were unstained and well manicured.

  "Now," Sladen pleaded, "could we please get on?"

  Husband had been filling a curved briar from a silver pocket box. He struck a match and breathed a haze of bright blue smoke. "As you probably know, Major Maxim is attached to Number 10for duties that appear not to be precisely defined but touch on security matters. He works, as Sir Anthony said, directly to the Private Office. This whole matter began when my service becameaware of Major Maxim at the scene of asurveillance operation that had been mounted. "

  "In London?" George asked.

  "Yes, in London. Initially our agents had no idea of who he was, but as I'm sure you know it's standard procedure to take photographs, and as soon as we compared them and a description with our files, we were in no doubt as to who he was."

  "So you stopped tailing him," Agnes suggested helpfully. George made a little annoyed grunt. She ignored it; I've been wounded already in this battle, brother. That makes a difference.

  "No, not entirely. A full-scale round-the-clock watch obviously wasn't either necessary or appropriate, but we did something to monitor his movements."

  Sir Bruce asked: "Did he notice what you were up to?"

  Oh, I love thatnotice. Agnes smiled at the old warrior, and then at Husband: by now, her anger at him had distilled to the warming spirit of pure hatred.

  "I believe he was lost from time to time, but that of course is inevitable in a down-market operation. We had no positive indication that he was aware of our interest until yesterday morning."

  He paused to relight his pipe. Everybody waited patiently. The Assistant Secretary put a large floppy handbag on the table and took out a small handkerchief. Her security pass was clipped to the strap of the bag, like a paddock pass on a racecourse.

  "Major Maxim lives alone. His life seems to have no particular routine apart from his work. That night we had two watchmen outside, just in case. He came out very early, as soon as it was light – about half past five – and drove off to Acton. Acton. You may or may not be familiar with Acton, one gets a glimpse of it from the train, but it largely consists of railway yards, goods depots, great piles of broken-up cars. All rather like a battlefield. "

  Agnes felt Sir Bruce, stir beside her.

  "With hindsight, we now see that our soldier friend was in fact leading our agents into his own sort of country. The two watchmen were in a van, radio-equipped of course, but unfortunately the particular area was under some overheadpower cables which badly affect radio for some distance around."

  Sir Bruce nodded contentedly.

  "In short, Major Maxim lured our watchers into this place and then ambushed them. The driver waspistol whipped, as I believe our Big Brothers call it, and left dazed and with the radio smashed -beyond repair. The other was kidnapped. He was held at gunpoint, handcuffed, blindfolded and forced into the boot of Major Maxim's car. I can understand soldiers being allowed to play with guns, but I would like to know where he got those handcuffs. "

  Nobody could think where until Scott-Scobie said cheerily: "Buy 'em all over, gun shops and so on. Big item in the FD market."

  "The what?" George asked.

  "Female domination. Whips and bonds."

  "Good God."

  Scott-Scobie grinned. "Do geton, Guy."

  "Yes… then he was driven for, he estimates, about half an hour. He was taken out, in some quiet place, out of doors, and questioned. Or rather, tortured. He was told to say just who he was working for, or he would have ammonia poured onto the blindfold. I assume you all know what raw ammonia does to the eyesight? Bank robbers used to use it quite freely, I believe. You can go blind."

  The room was quiet except for a hidden fan that suddenly interrupted its humming with a series of squeaks like somebody rubbing his shoes together. Sladen bent carefully back in his chair and frowned at the ceiling.

  "Our man could smell the ammonia," Husband said slowly. "He described quite graphically – to me personally – how he felt with it seeping through the blindfold and beginning to sting and then burn at his eyes so that he was finally forced to open them in order to blink. I do not want to hear anything like that again. Major Maxim then told him that there was no special hurry and that he was to take his time and make his statement complete. I understand that he made it complete."

  He paused deliberately.

  "As soon as we got him to a doctor-which took sometime – it was discovered that Major Maxim must have held the ammonia under our man's nose while pouring some odourless spirit – quite possibly strong vodka – onto the blindfold in order to produce the stinging sensation."

  "At school," Sir Bruce said reminiscently, "they taught me you could go blind from masturbation, never mind ammonia."

  "How fascinating. I hate to think what Major Maxim got taught in school-or would it have been the Army?"

  "Couldn't say, dear boy, but we do encourage young officers to think creatively."

  Husband sat back in his chair and began lighting his pipe for the third time. Sladen looked at George, who reluctantly sat up a bit straighter, and said: "Until your chap did talk, I imagine Major Maxim thought he was being followed by a bunch of Kremlin cowboys."

  "I don't see why," Husband said. "Any man with access to sensitive information, such as Major Maxim, should expect to be put under surveillance purely as a matter of routine. By Special Branch, or by a positive vetting team from Defence, or even Miss Algar's own service could quite legitimately decide to check up on his private life. I'm sureshe wouldn't have taken the matter lightly if it had been her own colleagues who had been beaten up and tortured. Nor do I imagine that Number 10would have been overjoyed if it had been some young detective constable."

  "I agree he acted hastily -"

  "He acted very deliberately and to a plan. The ammonia proves it."

  "Let's say that he should have come to me first," George said in a heavy, measured tone, "and let me sort the whole thing out. I assume that your service would immediately have acknowledged responsibility?"

  "Of course."

  Liar, Agnes thought. But George had to accept it.

  "Very well. But what do you want now? – for me to send him round to say sorry?"

  "We'd certainly like him sent round, but to say a little more than sorry."

  "Such as what?"

  "We would like to know what connection he has or had with the target of the original surveillance."

  Sir Bruce leant forward so that he could see past Agnes to George, but didn't say anything.

  George said: "Major Maxim is still working to the Private Office."

  "If he was working for the Private Office in
South London on the afternoon in question I should be very surprised indeed. '

  "Whereabouts in South London?"

  "Rotherhithe."

  Sladen was looking from George to Husband and back again, twitching his head from side to side like a tennis umpire. There was a ball being knocked back and forth, all right, but only Husband and, Agnes now realised, George knew what it was.

  "Who is your target?" George asked.

  Husband paused, cocked his head slightly and peered at George as if he were assessing his artistic value. "Are you quite certain you don't know?"

  The room tensed, but George shrugged and let it go past, perhaps admitting that was a ball he couldn't reach.

  Sladen waited nervously for somebody to say something, then asked tentatively: "Well… if we aren't to discoverwho, is it possible to find out something aboutwhy T'

  Why so nervous? Agnes wondered, then suddenly realised. As a number two to the Cabinet Secretary, who was the most powerful of all civil servants, Sladen's career was almost in orbit. One final boost and he would be up among the true stars, all guidance systems go for a seat in the House of Lords upon retirement. But final-stage rockets had misfired before, and at a time when people were whispering about a change of Prime Minister and the shake-out that would bring, the very last thing Sladen must want was to be caught up in a brawl between Number 10, the Foreign Office, Defence and the secret services. That way lay nothing but the chairmanship of a minor merchant bank.

  "I think Guy might fill in some of the background," Scott-Scobie agreed.

  But then there was a knock on the door, the messenger unlocked it and stuck his head in, asking: "Is it all right for coffee now, sir?"

  Sladen nodded, maybe a little relieved. "Since it would be now or never, yes, it's all right now." The meeting collapsed into muttering groups. The coffee lady, in a green nylon uniform, pushed in her trolley and began handing out ready-filled cups. Agnes got hers with the pale coffee already slopped over into the two sugar lumps and two hard little biscuits in the saucer. Luckily, she took neither sugar nor biscuits.

  "May I have mineblack, please?" Sladen called. Sims wanted his black, too. The coffee lady sighed loudly.

  Sir Bruce sipped, made a face, and whispered to Agnes: "And, I thought we suffered at Mo D. Have you any idea of what we're talking about?"

  "Not a thing. We've heard nothing about this."

  He grunted. "Dothey often set up surveillance operations in this country?"

  "I didn't think so. My own service was under the impression that it had thehuntin'and shootin' rights in this country. It didn't seem too much to expect, whenthey have all the rest of the world." She was wearing a brave but sad little smile. Outnumbered three to one – if you counted swinging S-S as One Of Them-she might need all the allies available.

  Sir Bruce made another Highland noise. "I never could get on with those people; they appear entirely obsessed with sex. They will not get it into their heads that what the military wants ismilitary information, not the phone number of some general's girlfriend. I don't believe there's a one of them could tell the difference between a T-J2 and a kiddie's tricycle. "

  Agnes nodded sympathetically. As the coffee lady trundled out, the messenger poked his head in. "Shall I lock up now, sir, or wait until she's collected the cups?"

  "Oh Good God!" Sladen almost lost his temper. "It doesn'tmatter about the cups. She can get them when we've finished, if we ever have the chance. Just leave usalone."

  Husband whacked out his pipe in a big glass ashtray, making a sound like a gong, then walked around the Assistant Secretary to mutter into Sladen's ear. Agnes flashed a smile at Sims and leant across after it.

  "Look – the next time you want to set up a surveillance in London, do remember that we're here tohelp. We have an awful lot of experience in these things, and we can do you quite a big show at very short notice. "

  Sims smiled back. His teeth were very even and, of course, very clean. "Thank you, but I think we can do all right." He had a faint German accent.

  "I'm talking about a dozen sets of wheels, thirty or forty bods. Not just two old men in a van."

  Sims stayed impeccably grateful. "You are very kind, but I do assure you we can manage."

  "You really are getting that section organised," Agnes said admiringly.

  Scott-Scobie suddenly woke up from behind his Financial Times and asked: "What was that? What did you say?"

  Agnes smiled at him. "Just a little liaising at the lower levels."

  S-S stared suspiciously at Sims, who lit another cigarette.

  Husband came back, also distributing suspicious looks, and sat down. Sladen tapped his papers together into a squared-off pile, spread them out again, and said: "Miss Algar, gentlemen, can we get back down the mineshaft? I believe Mr Husband was going to…?"

  Agnes interrupted. "Could I sort out one little problem first? I gather that the Rotherhithe operation was a full-scale affair, lots of wheels, thirty or forty personnel. Can I assume that it was cleared through the Cabinet Office? Obviously one can check, but…"

  Sladen's eyes searched for comfort. A few doors down from his own room sat a Co-ordinator of Intelligence whose task it was to try and keep MI6, 5 and the true military organisations from duplicating each other's efforts and spitting in each other's beer. His main control was money, since he turned the taps of the Secret Funds, but that was rather long-term. When relations grew particularly bad he became the child go-between in a household of warring parents: "Ask your father if it would break his heart to change channels so I can watch the news." By the unwritten laws of an unadmitted game, Sixshould never have sent a war-party into Five's tribal land without at least telling the Co-ordinator.

  "Or perhaps," Agnes added, "they went through the Yard?"

  Everybody knew they hadn't. Nobody told Scotland Yard anything they would mind seeing as next day's headlines.

  Husband wriggled himself comfortable and reached for his pipe. "Dieter?" he said to Sims.

  "I arranged for the surveillance," Sims said evenly. "It was done from my section and I am afraid I did not ask for sufficient permission. I am sorry."

  The can is carried here, Agnes thought.

  "I think Dieter's been a bit naughty, " Husband puffed, "but it was a direct follow-up to an incident abroad, so you might say it came under the doctrine of'hot pursuit'."

  "But if my Director-General asks what happened to the agreement that no operation of anything approaching this scale was to be mounted in this country without our knowledge…?"

  "You don'tknow what scale it was, but you can tell him Dieter says he's sorry. " Husband waved his pipe, making brief smoke trails.

  George muttered: "Drop it. Leave it lay. "

  Agnes stared at him, amazed. This was just the sort of thing – a secret service playing God – that usually had George registering 9 on the Richter Scale. But then it came to her just how much of George's power flowed from the Prime Minister in person. Now that the PM was on his Scottish sickbed, George was a near-flat battery, hoarding his last sparks for really crucial issues. Scott-Scobie's strength was that of the Foreign Office, faceless but continuous while PM's came and went like lantern slides.

  "I'm sorry for the interruption, Chairman," she said bleakly.

  "You can also say," Husband added, "that the surveillance has been discontinued – hasn't it, Dieter?"

  "Oh yes."

  Sladen said: "Now we've got that settled, perhaps Mr Husband, you'd like to…"

  "It's Dieter's section that's been handling this, so I'll let him fill in the background. "

  Sims ground out his cigarette and began. "You will all be aware of the changes in the Politbureau in the GDR since the railway strike. Especially one of the new members of the Secretariat of the Central Committee, Gustav Eismark."

  Sir Bruce wasn't sure he'd read that issue of The Economist.

  "He is widely regarded in the West as the token liberal," Sims explained. "Just as there mu
st be a token Jew and a woman. We believe he could be more than this. His background is with shipping, first in the yards at Rostock, then with the national shipping line. He stopped the seamen and dock workers joining the strike, but he did not take too hard a line. We prefer to see him as we think he sees himself: a pragmatist."

  "The great thing to be in East Germany right now," Scott-Scobie announced. "It marks you as one of the technocrats – what a ghastly word – and they're the class that counts. The politicians may say Blah but the computers go on saying onoioo or whatever it is, and it's the people who can make senseof that who'll be in the top bunk when the dam breaks. Also Eismark's only sixty-odd and that's a mere youth in the GDR. Ulbricht died in office when he was gone eighty, didn't he?"

  "That is so," Sims said, smiling – apparently grateful for S-S's help. 'Filling in the background', Agnes saw, didn't include delivering the punch lines. "We believe he may be, in the long term, a very important man. And we also know of his early life something more than the official biography, since, thirty years ago, his sister defected to here. She was a pianist, and used her mother's name, Linnarz. Wilhelmina Linnarz."

  "I remember her, " Sladen pounced, thankful for something he recognised at last. "She used to play a lot of Schumann. I didn't always agree with her Chopin, and her Liszt was a disaster area, but I'd listen to her for a long time if it's Schumann. What happened to her? – is she dead?"

  "We do not know. She left this country twenty years ago, and we have no trace. "

  There was a moment while everybody thought about that, 84 probably for no good reason except that they didn't like to see twenty years go by without offering up a few seconds' respectful silence, then Sir Bruce asked: "So she didn't go back to the GDR?"

  Husband said: "We're very inclined to doubt it. They'd have put her in the freak show, confessing how misled she was by capitalist gold. One defector that repenteth is better propaganda than nine-and-ninety loyal party workers, isn't that so, Dieter?"

  But ofcourse, Agnes realised, Sims – or whoever he'd been born – must once have been on the far side of The Wall, too. She'd been slow to see that, and tried to make up for it by saying quickly: "Her jumping over can't have helped Eis-mark's career."