by John Gardner
On the first day there was to be a grand parade and inspection, in which members of the British royal family, and the Chinese politicians, would take part. Three bands from a trio of great British regiments were to provide the music, while an honour guard was flown in from the Royal Scots Greys.
On the evening before this event, a secret operation, involving MI5, the SIS and the Special Air Service, uncovered a bomb plot by the Provisional Irish Republican Army.
Six members of the Provos were shot dead before they were able to explode a huge car bomb. The bomb was remote-controlled, and the Provos had planned this ‘spectacular’ — as they called such horrors — to show they were capable of taking death to any part of the globe where British forces were still stationed. The deaths of many innocent people, plus the royals and Chinese politicians, would merely have been a side-effect.
There followed the usual cries of outrage from both sides. The SAS was accused of brutal murder by those who claimed these elite troops were simply British assassins; while others pointed to the policy of murder and war waged by a minority in the North of Ireland.
Distanced from these events, Naldo and Barbara watched the television coverage, and listened to the BBC World Service, from their pleasant small estate in Virginia.
Following the horrors of his last days with the SIS, Naldo had remained adamant about leaving the United Kingdom. Barbara, who shared his anxiety about the future of Europe, was only too happy to follow her husband. So, in 1975, the couple packed their bags, shipped their furniture, and set off to make a new life in the United States.
James Railton’s betrayal, together with the unmasking of Arnie Farthing, had broken Naldo’s will. What he needed now was to put a lot of distance between him and his old roots. Down the years, his family had posed, lied and betrayed. He wanted no more of that, and this sense of disillusion had spread deeply into his views of life and country. The England he saw around him in the mid-1970s had altered out of recognition. No more, he repeated many times, was this the country of his birth, the country he had fought for, and been betrayed for. His England had passed away, and something new and unrecognizable had risen in its place. England was betrayed, and, in return, had betrayed its citizens.
He was aware that, by residing in the United States, he was in many ways avoiding issues, but he could live with that. Here in the USA, as an alien, he did not have a vote. He paid his taxes, but was not forced by conscience to cast his lot for British politicians who, in his heart, disgusted him. The cosiness of the old socialism had turned into a rabble, with cardboard leaders ready to be burned down by the firebrands of the far left; the present government practised an outward show of Victorian paternalism, together with values that had little meaning in the modern world — and often no meaning at all for the civil servants who acted on its behalf. The middle ground Naldo saw as a scattering of foxholes, peopled by men and women who dreamed impossible dreams, and had not one clear, original, or feasible political thought between them.
So now, the couple lived a simple life. Naldo began to write and, for a number of years, had been engaged in a long history of the Western intelligence and security services, taking care not to break the Official Secrets Act, as some had in recent times. Indeed, he would have cheerfully gone and strangled Mr Peter Wright who had so blatantly broken his binding agreement of service with MI5, making the government of the day look stupid in the process.
Naldo’s theory about the Government’s continued legal attempts to ban Wright’s book, Spycatcher, was that they feared innocent men and women would actually believe Wright’s garbage, while anyone who knew the truth of these things could spot the multitude of holes and manufactured ‘truths’, which were simply an old man’s unbridled vengeance, coupled with an unnatural swallowing of Soviet disinformation.
It was a quiet, warm Friday night when the telephone rang. Barbara and Naldo had been sitting on their sun deck, looking out towards the Blue Ridge Mountains, and trying to summon up energy to bath and change for a dinner party with friends.
Naldo answered, immediately recognizing his son Arthur’s voice.
‘How does a bloke and his wife-to-be get to your neck of the woods, Pa?’ Arthur asked.
‘Where in hell are you?’
‘Dulles International.’ You could hear the smile in his voice. ‘It’ll only take you an hour from Dulles. There’s a flight every two hours.’ Naldo did not try to cloak his excitement. ‘Look. Why don’t you get the first one available? I’ll check it out from this end. We’ll be at the airport. What a wonderful surprise.’
Their hosts for the evening understood the sudden change of plan, but it was not until they were in the car, heading towards the local airport, that they took in the full magnitude of what Arthur had said.
‘You’re sure?’ Barbara’s eyes opened wide. ‘You’re sure he said “wife-to-be”? Arthur’s going to be married?’
‘That’s what he said. Wonder why he’s here? With the girl as well?’
‘She’ll never be good enough for him.’ Barbara laughed. In fun, she echoed exactly what her own mother had said when she had broken the news of her engagement to Naldo, all those years ago.
Both of them had long accepted that Arthur was a member of the Secret Intelligence Service, having been recruited while working for the Foreign Office. But what Arthur was doing this far afield made them curious. They both hoped, with some fervour, that their son would be the last Railton to dabble in secret affairs.
Arthur was fit and well, brimming with energy: taller than his father, and dressed casually in jeans and a leather jacket. Privately, Naldo thought the boy resembled any other SIS hood. The girl, whose name was Elizabeth McGregor, had a fresh, clean, scrubbed look about her, with fair fluffy hair, freckles and a mischievous sense of fun.
Naldo and Barbara were delighted. Only Naldo felt a twitch of concern, for Liz, as she liked to be called, had traces of an Irish brogue in her voice: not the soft accent of the South, but the slightly more harsh vowel sounds of the North.
They heard all the news; were careful not to ask questions which might embarrass Arthur; laughed, joked, heaped congratulations on the couple, and drew Liz closely to them, making her feel part of the family from the start.
Barbara, the soul of tact, took Arthur aside and asked if they wanted two guest rooms or only one.
He smiled his charming smile — looking just like his father had once appeared to Barbara — and told her that two rooms were needed. ‘We’re both a shade old-fashioned about these things,’ he said. ‘It’s not like it used to be in your day, Ma,’ ducking a feigned left hook.
So it was that, later in the evening, Naldo found himself alone, on the deck, but behind the wire grill to keep the insects out, having a nightcap with his son.
‘When’s the wedding, then? And where will it be?’
Arthur looked up at his father, from beneath lowered lids. ‘In about a year,’ he said softly. ‘Don’t worry, it’s going to happen, but we need a year. I’m probably being posted to Washington, and I — well, we really — wondered if Liz could stay with you for a while. She needs somewhere safe and unlikely.’
Naldo felt his instincts sit bolt upright. ‘Where’ve you flown in from, Art?’ It was his interrogating voice.
‘Hong Kong, actually.’
‘Ah.’
‘Don’t get it wrong, Pa. I’ve known Liz for eighteen months now.’
‘And you’ve worked with her, haven’t you?’
‘I’d only admit it to you.’
‘You were in the recent thing? The Hong Kong thing? And she was involved?’
His son nodded. ‘Yes. She has to go to earth, Pa. You have to look after her for me. I love her. I want to marry her.’
‘And you ran her, didn’t you?’
‘In a way. She’s a very brave girl. She was our mole inside the Provos. She blew the Hong Kong thing for us.’
Silently, Naldo sipped his drink. Yes, he would let her stay, but
he was aware of the dangers, and the care that he would have to take. He also knew he should turn his son down, and send both of them packing.
Then he thought of his own father, who had died, in an open prison during 1984, without giving any convincing explanation for his treachery, or even when he had started to work for the Soviets. His clearest answer was that he had been motivated by conviction alone. He had even said that it was to save his own country.
Naldo’s mother, the once-lovely Margaret Mary, had come out to live with them, depressed and only a fragment of her former self. She followed her husband within a year.
‘Of course,’ Naldo now said to his son. ‘Of course she can stay. But your service must know I’m not going to make a habit of it. Also, I want your boss, whoever he is, to pay a call: take me through the minefield so to speak.’
‘Nobody alters in this business, do they, Pa? Even after all this time your tradecraft is second nature. Nobody changes.’
‘Some do. Some alter out of all recognition, Arthur.’ Shakespeare went through his head, and a night bird called from the woods at the far edge of his property.
And trust no agent: for beauty is a witch
Against whose charms faith melteth into blood.
If you enjoyed The Secret Families then you might be interested in The Liquidator by John Gardner, also published by Endeavour Press.
Extract from The Liquidator by John Gardner
Prologue: Paris
August 1944
Mostyn was fighting for his life. Twice he had thrown the short one into the gutter, but now they were both at him: the short one trying to pinion his arms while the big fellow's hands were almost at his throat. He was tiring now, sweating and furious: furious with himself for being caught like this. It was an object lesson in lowering one's guard while still operational.
That morning he had seen British tanks in the Place de la Concorde. He had whistled all the way back to Jacques' flat - feeling that life was his again. The job was nearly over - and now, to be jumped by the very two men he had so carefully avoided during the past long six weeks. It was unforgivable.
The big one reached for his throat: he could feel himself being pressed against the wall: the cold bricks hard at the back of his neck as he pushed his chin down on to his chest to stop the great hot hands forcing through to his windpipe.
But the big man was winning: the world was going red. He could hardly breathe, and the pain had begun to paralyse his shoulders and arms as he threshed about, panicking to set himself free. What a way to die - in a back alley off the Boulevard Magenta, with all Paris singing at her emancipation on this gorgeous afternoon.
Somewhere, far away beyond the waterfall noise in his ears, he thought he could hear the tanks again. One last effort. He heaved upwards with his arms, kicked out and brought his knee sharply between the big one's legs. He felt the knee-cap make a squashy contact. The man yelped and dropped back, growling a German oath before springing in again. Out of the corner of his eye, Mostyn saw something flicker farther up the street. Still grappling with the two men, he gave a quick turn of the head. The newcomer was running out of the sunlight at the alley entrance, the mottled camouflage jacket unmistakable. Mostyn shouted - shocked at the frightened falsetto of his own voice: 'Help! Quickly! I'm British! Help! Intelligence!'
The big fellow looked round, startled and off-guard. There was a moment's hesitation, then he began to stumble away. The little man had lost his balance, pushing himself from the wall in an attempt to follow his companion.
They only managed three steps - four at the most. To Mostyn, panting against the wall, the shots sounded like cannon fire. Then, suddenly, it was all over. The two Germans lay like crumpled piles of clothes - the big one sprawled face-down, his head resting on the pavement, a matted patch of spreading red where the base of his skull had been: the little one was on his back, a bullet through the neck, his eyes looking up with the reproachful surprise of one who has met his Maker unready and with unexpected swiftness.
Mostyn looked at his saviour. He was a sergeant: from a tank crew, judging by the accoutrements - map-case and binoculars - slung round his neck. Now the big Colt automatic seemed too heavy for him. His wrist sagged as though the weight was dragging it down; a thin trickle of blue smoke turning to wispy grey as it filtered from the muzzle, up the barrel and over his hand.
But it was the eyes that made Mostyn catch his breath, sending the short hairs tingling on the nape of his neck: ice-blue, cold as freezing point, looking down at the bodies with immense satisfaction.
Mostyn prided himself that he could read the truth in other men's eyes. These told the story all too plainly. This man, a perfect technician in death, had enjoyed shooting to kill. He was, thought Mostyn, a born assassin, a professional who would blow a man's life from him as easily, and with as little emotion, as he would blow his own nose.
The sergeant was still gazing at the corpses, his mouth curved slightly at one corner in a wry smile. This one, thought Mostyn, will be worth watching. One day he might be useful again.
1 - London
Saturday June 8th 1963
BOYSIE
Boysie Oakes slid the razor smoothly over the last froth of lather below his chin and ran the side of his third finger carefully in its wake. Satisfied, he rinsed the razor, doused a flannel and proceeded to sponge away the surplus foam. Drying his face, a moment later, he paused, peering into the mirror, searching for the least sign of wear or tear.
For a man in his mid-forties, Boysie was in peak condition. Not a single fold of skin showed on the neck or up the hard jaw line. His mouth, with the built-in slight upward curve at the left corner, had not deteriorated into the full sensual thickness which he had once feared. Momentarily he turned his head, slanting his eyes to get a better look at the left profile which a woman had once called his 'Mona Lisa side'.The striking ice blue eyes were as clear as they had been in his teens - the tiny laughter lines and minute crows' feet revealing a dependable maturity instead of the prophetic marks of encroaching age. Time had neither thinned his eyebrows nor pushed back his hairline: the only concession to approaching middle age seemed to be the shining flecks of grey at his temples.
Boysie spilled a tiny pool of Lentheric Onyx into the hollow of his left palm, crossing it to the right and working the mixture up his long fingers before running both hands quickly down and over his cheeks and chin. His eyes twitched fractionally as the lotion stung into the pores, the clean tang catching at his nostrils. He followed it with a tiny puff of talc from the black and gold container, rubbing it down and away until no trace was visible.
Replacing the requisites of good grooming in the clear glass cupboard, he stepped away from the magnifying mirror, running the backs of his right-hand fingers to and fro over the freshly barbered jowl, now smooth as nylon stretched tight over arched female buttocks. His complexion - burnished by the daily half-hour stint with the sunray lamp - was as clear and tough as well-waxed leather, with none of the danger marks of purple-red veining under the eyes or at nose tip.
Ablutions completed, Boysie padded from the bathroom, across the carpeted passage into the luxurious little bedroom. Brubeck and his boys brought their arithmetically steady improvisation on Leonard Bernstein's Somewhere to its nostalgic climax. The record-player clicked as the next disc fell into position on the turntable and the liquid peace of Bach's Goldberg Variations filled the flat. The quiet pace of the harpsichord made Boysie feel more than usually conscious of the luck that had come his way.
Ten years ago he had never heard of the Goldberg Variations, or, for that matter, Matisse - one of whose original geometrically brilliant oils hung over the white and silver headboard of the big double bed. Boysie lit a king-sized filter and took a quick look at himself in the wall-length mirror. The picture seemed pretty good to him: his body, utterly male, hard, balanced and straight as a lath. He posed conceitedly - a Sunday heavy ad in azure string vest and Y-front briefs.
Comin
g out of the little fantasy, he took a long draw at his cigarette, rested it on the ashtray - which stood next to a deluxe copy of the Kama Sutra on the bedside table - and slipped a cream poplin tailored shirt over his head. Pulling out the tie rack, he selected a Thailand silk in bronze to match the autumn-tinted Courtelle suit which lay ready on the bed. Johann Sebastian's intricate keyboard practice weaved on.
Whatever else one felt about Mostyn, thought Boysie adjusting the waistband of his trousers, at least he was a thorough swine. He was really deeply indebted to Mostyn. A complete new world had been opened up to him almost from the moment he had signed the Official Secrets Act, together with that ominous piece of paper which made him a particular slave to the Department of Special Security. Art, Literature, Music, the Drama, food, wine, the knowledge of a gourmet (if not the true palate) - all had been brought to him through Mostyn: together, of course, with the £4,000 a year, the regular bonuses and the white custom-built E-type Jaguar.
Fully dressed, he slipped his wrist-watch over the fingers of his left hand and glanced at the dial. Ten-thirty: must get going. For the second time that morning Boysie felt the disconcerting butterfly flutter in the pit of his stomach - always the prelude to flying. He walked into the living-room where the battered multi-labelled tan Revelation stood packed and locked; poured himself a double jigger of Courvoisier and pressed the stud that opened the secret drawer in his rebuilt Sheraton bureau. The small, pearl-handled automatic pistol lay snugly in its crimson velvet recess. He checked the mechanism and slid the weapon into the leather holster sewn into the hip pocket of his trousers, slipping the patent quick-release strap over the butt to keep it in place, and dropping three fully loaded spare magazines into the tailored clip on the inside pocket of his jacket. Mostyn would have a fit, he thought, if he knew of that gun. The business of only allowing him to go armed when on an actual assignment was one of the few things Boysie hated about the Department. There was no doubt that Mostyn would shoot up the wall with the agility of a monkey on a stick if he even heard of the existence of the weapon. But then, what Mostyn - now Second-in-Command of Security - believed about Boysie, and what Boysie knew about himself were as far removed from each other as the proverbial chalk and Stilton. When one really got down to cases, carrying that pistol - which couldn't be classed as a real man-stopper anyway - was Boysie's own private little joke against Mostyn. Even so, he invariably experienced a trickle of cold sweat whenever he thought too deeply on the consequences of Mostyn discovering his tiny secret.