“Again, I agree. I can only come to the conclusion that in fact he did tell them more, and when he’d been sucked dry they decided to impress our Prime Minister by releasing him. I shall press him again, of course — find out just how much he did reveal and what its importance is.” Harcourt looked at his watch. “Lunch first — we’ll let him sweat for a while.”
“You seem,” Shard said, “to be saying you don’t see him as a plant?”
“I’m not saying that at all, my dear chap. I believe he very easily could be. What I am saying is, he’s no basic villain. If he’s here to do us dirt, then the brainwash has been first class and he’s acting from what seems to him the highest motives. And I’d like to think your own brief includes a degree of Mackintosh-protection as well as a manhunt.”
*
Shard felt the same way, but knew Hedge wouldn’t: that was going to complicate his assignment, but he would do his best. He’d liked the look of Mackenzie Edinburgh Castle Mackintosh. The second part of the interrogation did in fact reveal that Mackintosh had parted with some information that was still supposed to be on the secret list: details of a Defence Ministry requirement for an oil pipe-line, on which work had begun some years ago, from the Cromarty Firth to deep tanks in the south of England, the laying of it disguised under the cloak of a projected network of water pipes dreamed up by the Department of the Environment in conjunction with the Regional Water Authorities to equate water supplies throughout the country. The Defence Ministry wanted a strategic reserve of crude oil kept in safety from such things as atomic attack, a last-ditch series of tanks and a pipe-line capable of maintaining a supply right to the last in an emergency; it was not good news that the facts had been given to Libya, but neither Shard nor Harcourt were disposed to blame Mackintosh: the nineteen-seventies had produced the ultimate in sophisticated pressure-methods. The result of the day’s interrogation was that Shard’s assignment stood confirmed and Mackintosh was to be released homeward at seven-forty-five that evening when an aircraft of Support Command would fly him out of Biggin Hill for Dyce Airport at Aberdeen: there he would meet his wife again for the first time since he’d left for Israel three years before. With him in that aircraft would fly Detective Chief Superintendent Simon Shard, as anonymously as he had watched the man’s ordeal on television. The journey to Biggin Hill would be made separately: Shard would be driven to the airfield in a Defence Ministry car from Whitehall while Mackintosh would be taken direct from Knightsbridge in Harcourt’s car along with Harcourt himself. In the meantime officers from FO’s security section would fly north by a scheduled civil flight from Gatwick to report to Shard in Aberdeen and set up the twenty-four-hour watch on Mackintosh.
*
Shard reached Biggin Hill at seven-thirty; he was met by a flight-sergeant who took him straight to the CO’s quarters where he was sat down with a whisky to await the report that Mackintosh was aboard his plane; Shard himself would be going as a civilian employee concerned with the supply of aviation spirit and would strike up a friendly conversation with Mackintosh, always provided he could be heard above the racket from the jets. With a shared interest, a good contact could be established and the watch kept more closely — another aspect of the operation that jarred on Shard. Feeling sour at subterfuge, he toyed with his whisky and listened to jovialities from the station commander: his thoughts were partly with Beth, whom he’d telephoned at Ealing to say he would be away he knew not how long and would be in touch just as soon as he could. Beth had sounded lonely and depressed and with reluctance he had admitted it might be a good idea if she got her mother over till he got back home: Mrs Micklem was a mixed blessing, given to interference in domestic arrangements, and sometimes not easy to unseat once in residence. Once, when as a sergeant he had lived in a small flat, he had reached home to find she had turned up and was proposing to eject him from the second of the twin beds to sleep on the sofa in the sitting-room: on that occasion Mrs Micklem had been ejected herself before another cup of tea, and his relationship with Beth had been sorely strained until the reading of the Riot Act had resulted in a tearful admission that it was high time she crawled out from under her mother’s domination. Thinking of what might soon be wrought in his house, and responding politely to the station commander’s small-talk, Shard was surprised when the latter got to his feet after a glance at his watch and said. “The damn chap’s late. Wonder what’s happened to him.”
Shard joined the CO at a window and looked across the A233 towards the main airfield buildings. The minutes passed; seven-forty-five had come and gone when the CO went for his telephone: Harcourt’s car had not come in. Ten minutes later Shard was getting anxious; two minutes after that his worries increased when the guardroom rang through: a Major Harcourt had reported and he looked like a case for an ambulance and the nearest hospital. Shard went across with the CO and after the salutes and the boot stamping had been disposed of he got the story from Harcourt: his car had been forced into a lay-by after passing through Bromley: a police mobile, looking very genuine with its blue lamp flashing and its POLICE STOP sign lit had come up behind, roared past, and waved Harcourt’s driver down. When the fake coppers had closed in with guns, Harcourt had ticked over, but he was too late. Mackintosh had been hooked away. One of the hookers had been dark skinned, could have been from any one of a number of Mediterranean countries. Harcourt had put up a fight along with his driver, but had been dropped cold by a blow from a heavy metal object; his driver was dead, shot three times through the stomach by a silenced revolver. After the villains had gone, a passing motorist had stopped and Harcourt had insisted on being driven at once to Biggin Hill.
Two
SHARD USED THE security line to call the FO: Harry Kenwood took his report and guaranteed to contact Hedge immediately even though he had just departed for a massage parlour. Shard then left for the scene of the ambush in an RAF vehicle. Harcourt’s car had a police guard on it and nothing had been touched; the driver’s body drooled blood over the gritty remains of someone’s shattered windscreen.
Briefly Shard showed his FO pass to the sergeant in charge, receiving a salute in exchange. “Anything that helps?” he asked.
“Not so far as we can see, sir.”
Shard nodded, ran the eye of experience quickly over the scene. “I doubt if there’ll be any prints, but my chaps are on their way and should be with you shortly. Have you had any reports of stolen patrol cars, Sergeant?”
“No, sir.”
“So maybe we assume they built their own, and God knows where they did it.”
“Plenty of shady garages about, sir —”
“Plenty’s the word. All right, Sergeant. Hang on here till my lads show up.”
“And after, sir — the Major’s car?”
“It’s still drivable. I’d like it taken to police premises — your own nick, all right?”
“I’ll see to that, Mr Shard.”
“And the body to the police mortuary. I take it a general call’s been put out for the hold-up vehicle. I want to know any result straight away, at the Foreign Office.” Shard turned away and got back into the RAF car and was driven fast for Whitehall.
*
“Shard, it’s damnable!” Hedge, partially massaged and still looking steam-damp from the sauna, had a grotesque wobble in his flabby cheeks. “What’s the Prime Minister going to say, for God’s sake?”
“No doubt you’ll be finding out, Hedge.”
“What are you doing about it?”
“All that can be done as of now. That consists largely of waiting for reports —”
“Reports! Waiting!” The voice was high and bitter. “If you police would only get off your damn backsides now and again —”
“Hedge, I’m the policeman, and I happen to know my job. You’re the diplomat and I assume you know yours. Just in case you don’t, I suggest that it’s to see that everyone keeps their cool over this and maintains as much discretion as possible. In short, Hedge, leave the fiel
d work to me, and occupy yourself in keeping the press boys off, all right?”
Hedge covered his face with his hands. “Oh, God, the press!” He uncovered again. “Tell me what you’re doing, then.”
“A check, starting in the London area, on all garages known or believed to have handled stolen vehicles. Full co-operation from the Yard. If they turn nothing up, the search goes nationwide. In the meantime, of course, a report could come in from Nether Fiddleton Police that they’ve just missed one of their mobiles —”
“Nether Fiddleton? Why Nether Fiddleton?”
Shard grinned without humour. “An illustration, Hedge, that’s all. Not much time has in fact elapsed yet —”
“Exactly, and don’t let’s waste the advantage. What else?”
“All forces around the Greater London area, south, Gillingham through Redhill to Windsor, alerted to watch for all mobiles. And —”
“They won’t still be in that police car!”
Shard nodded. “Likely not, I agree. If they’re not, it may be found abandoned. On the other hand, it may have been driven to ground in a prepared rendezvous —”
“Oh, very helpful!” Hedge said sneeringly.
Shard snapped, “Face facts. Nothing’s perfect, not even the police. On occasions, villains do get away. All I can promise, is we’ll be doing our best, all stops out. It might help if you’d give me some theories.”
“What about?”
“About who’s likely to have hooked Mackintosh.”
Hedge flapped his arms. “If I knew that, I could send you straight there!” He wandered about the room, simmering down. He poured himself a whisky from a crystal decanter on a silver tray, omitting to extend the courtesy to Shard. Shard, although he would have refused the offer if made, watched cynically as the liquid was gulped into Hedge’s throat: bouts of meanness were another of Hedge’s attributes. Hedge said, “Well, I don’t know. The Libyans or the Israelis, but why? The Libyans have just let him go, the Israelis are his friends.”
“So maybe they want to protect him.”
“From the Libyans?”
“Maybe. Maybe from us. They’ll have guessed we’d interrogate. From which it follows, or could follow, that they too suspect he’s been indoctrinated —”
“By the Libyans. Yes.” Hedge ceased his prowling, dropped like a sack of potatoes into his swivel chair. “It’s a damn jigsaw puzzle!”
“Sure, but —”
“Solve it, Shard.” Hedge lifted an arm, pointed a finger like a gun. It was a nicely dramatic gesture, neo-Kitchener: Hoch, hoch, mein Gott, What a bloody rotten lot, Are the ragtime infantree …” Questions are going to be asked at Cabinet level the moment this reaches Downing Street. I need answers, I’m right in the line of fire and I’m bloody vulnerable. That man Mackintosh is dynamite. Find him.” The last two words came out on a low growl as Hedge shifted image: Kitchener was now replaced by Churchill. We shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight on the beaches … Dismissed with heavy words of warning ringing in his ears, Shard went down to the security section. Kenwood was still there, joined now by Shard’s DI, John Linton, a newly appointed officer from the Yard. “Anything new, John?” Shard asked.
“Nothing that helps, sir. Fingerprints negative — just Major Harcourt’s and the driver’s, with some others already checked as being those of the relief driver and the mechanics who do the servicing.”
“Fast work!”
“We knew the urgency.”
“And the police car?”
“Blank so far, but we’re bound to run it to earth in the end.”
“Sure — and too bloody late!” Shard, still with Hedge’s ersatz Churchill voice on his mind, ran a hand through his hair. Beaches and landing grounds … already there had been a fight, if not on, then near, a landing ground; and beaches were, presumably, a link in the chain that brought the good British crude oil ashore from the North Sea. “I’m going north — Dyce for Aberdeen. Where Mackintosh was supposed to go.”
“To see his wife, sir?”
Shard nodded. “I may dig something up, either from her or indirectly. As a matter of fact … I wouldn’t mind being a magnet. Someone just might see me as worth keeping tabs on, who knows?”
“That’s chancy.”
“Sure. So, according to Hedge, is the future for British oil if anything goes sour. Drop the word into the grapevine, John, all nice and discreet: dick on the Mackintosh job heads north!” He added seriously, “But keep in mind Hedge’s Commandment Number One: thou shalt not utter one bloody syllable to the press.”
*
Defence Ministry obliged again: Shard left Biggin Hill in the small hours and, before the dawn, was emerging cold and cramped and deafened into the keen air of Scotland: up here in Aberdeen, that keen air was overlaid by oil, the great god that had forced his way into the hearts and minds and canny purses of the Scots; here, MacOil was king. You couldn’t escape it: if the Aberdeen streets were not literally running with oil, then they were in a fair way to being paved with gold. Shard, met by a plain-clothes policeman with equally plain car, was driven through those streets first to police HQ then on to Mackintosh’s home, a big bungalow, luxury class, on the opposite side of the city. Mackintosh had been making big money: in Aberdeen, his bungalow must have had a value right up in the fifty thousands. A woman in curlers answered his ring, a monosyllabic Scot of advanced years, looking like a daily obliger, with a cigarette adhering to her upper lip, one of a long, long chain that had burned a river of nicotine from lip to nostril. Obviously, not Fiona Mackintosh.
“I’d like to speak to Mrs Mackintosh.”
“Aye.”
“Is she at home?”
“No.”
“Oh. Not at home?” Shard glanced at his watch: he hadn’t hurried, taking breakfast first in the canteen at the nick, but even so it was early, a little after nine. “Will she be back soon?”
“No.”
“Then can you tell me where she’s gone?”
“Aye.”
Shard fumed inwardly. “Then will you please do so?”
“Just a wee minute.” This was a long speech. “Who are ye, wull ye tell me that?”
“I’m a police officer —”
“Aye.”
“You’ll have heard that Mr Mackintosh was due home —”
“Aye.”
“Then surely, Mrs Mackintosh …” Shard let out a long breath of frustration. “Just tell me where she is and I’ll fathom out the rest for myself.”
“Mistress Mackintosh has gane tae Aberfeldy, that’s doon in Pairthshire.”
“I see,” Shard said blankly. “And her address?”
“Breadalbane Arms Hotel.”
“Thank you. Do you happen to know why she’s gone there?”
The woman shrugged; pieces of cigarette ash scattered as she uttered again: “She’s gane tae Aberfeldy because she likes Aberfeldy. How dae I know ye’re one of thae flatfeet?”
Shard caught the eye of the plain-clothes man and grimaced. He produced his pass, not the FO one but the Yard one, and the woman nodded. “Aye. Then I’ll tell ye: Mr Mackintosh first met his leddy in the birks o’ Aberfeldy. The place has associations. It was the wish o’ baith of them to meet there again for the first time after he came back tae Scotland. And I’ll wish you good-day, now.”
The door shut; Shard and the local man walked down the path. “Someone,” Shard said savagely, “has slipped. It may be us, it may be you. It may be Defence Ministry. But this should have been known.”
“If it’s true, Mr Shard.”
Shard nodded. “A similar thought passed through my mind too, but I’ve a feeling it’s true enough. And natural — to want to meet like that, and avoid people. But just in case, I think some surveillance is called for. Agree?”
“I do, sir, yes —”
“Then in that case you’ll not mind if I leave you to start the watch and if I take your car for myself. It’s not my patch — don’t remin
d me — but I’ll fix that. I’ll fix a relief too.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Be inconspicuous — I’ll drop you a little way off. A general surveillance, and report anything unusual. All right?”
“All right, sir.”
They got into the car and drove a few streets away from the Mackintosh bungalow. As the Aberdeen man got out Shard said, “Birks. What are they?”
“Birches … in Aberfeldy there’s a birch-lined gorge, with a stream and waterfalls. Robbie Burns sat there and wrote ‘The Birks o’ Aberfeldy’.”
“Did he indeed,” Shard murmured. “I hope the story’s not going to be added to.” A gorge with waterfalls sounded a viable enough place for a killing …
*
Before heading out for Aberfeldy, Shard did his homework: a visit to the headquarters of the biggest of the oil companies involved in extraction from the North Sea fields gave him the up-to-the-minute summary of production, landing and distribution of the saviour-to-be of the British economy, the balance of payments and the continued turning of the wheels of industry. This company was the one Mackenzie Edinburgh Castle Mackintosh had worked for, the company upon whose payroll his name still stood. Shard was given every assistance, for Mackintosh had been held in very high regard. He parried the questions as to where Mackintosh now was; there had been, he said, a delay in his arrival home — just that, and nothing more. He spoke to the company’s local managing director, Duncan Stuart, and got the low-down on the projected reserve pipeline to the south of England which the company was constructing in co-operation with the Defence Ministry.
“It’s a long-term project, of course, Mr Shard,” Stuart told him. “It’ll be spread over the next five years.”
“And it started when? Before Mackintosh was captured?”
“Yes, a year before that.”
“Was he concerned in its construction?”
“On the geological side, yes, he was. You’ll appreciate the immensity of the problems involved — all the varying strata, the kinds of rock we’ll encounter all that long way south. Metamorphic, volcanic, igneous, sedimentary, organic rock. We have to watch for natural faults that could crack the pipeline, sometimes we need to alter its course and bring it in again where faulting and folding is unlikely. Mackintosh has been a very big loss to us, and we’ll be grateful to have him back as fast as you’ll let us, I assure you.”
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