by Bob Cook
“Nor,” said the Home Secretary, “am I prepared to answer questions about any specific claims and allegations in his memoirs. The House is fully aware that our policy is neither to confirm or deny such claims—”
The House burst into an incredulous uproar, and Ogden rubbed his hands gleefully.
“Splendid,” he said. “Just what the doctor ordered.”
“The bloody fool,” said the Laird. “Doesn’t he realise—?”
“I can only add,” said the Home Secretary, “that we greatly deplore the publication of any such memoirs from Crown Servants, who have a lifelong duty of confidentiality concerning all aspects of their employment.”
“Extraordinary!” the Vicar exclaimed. “He’s as good as confirmed our stories.”
“What did I tell you?” Ogden grinned.
“Furthermore,” said the Home Secretary, “the House will be pleased to hear that the Attorney-General has been granted an injunction banning the publication of these memoirs in Great Britain, and he is now considering what further action, if any, he will take.”
“I knew it,” Sybil muttered. “You’ll be arrested and sent to prison, and you can’t say I didn’t—”
“Nonsense,” Ogden laughed. “He can’t touch us. You wait and see.”
When the Home Secretary had sat down, the MPs pelted him with questions.
“Surely,” one said, “it could do no harm whatsoever to national security for the Home Secretary to confirm that these so-called memoirs are just a tissue of lies, written solely for profit.”
“Bloody cheek!” Beauchamp said indignantly.
“Don’t worry,” Ogden said. “He won’t let us down.”
“I deeply regret,” the Home Secretary said, “that I am unable to give the House such confirmation. As I have already explained, we do not, under any circumstances, make comment upon leaked or illicit material relating to state security.”
The House was not pleased by this, and it expressed its displeasure with its customary barrage of hoots, groans and catcalls.
“Splendid fellow,” the Vicar smiled.
“Don’t give in.”
“He won’t,” said the Laird.
And he didn’t. After a number of similar questions failed to elicit any response from the Home Secretary, the MPs changed tack, and demanded that terrible punishments be visited upon Ogden immediately. But here too, the Home Secretary was remarkably vague: he repeated that the Attorney-General was looking into the matter, and that the House must await his decision. Of course, no MP was to know that prosecution had already been ruled out by the Attorney-General, for the very reasons Ogden had given to his friends: the memoirs were, in effect, a work of fiction, and contained nothing that could be described as an official secret.
The net result was precisely what Ogden had anticipated: the papers which carried the old spy’s memoirs now sold in huge numbers, and the issue became international front-page news. With some embarrassment, the Washington Post was forced to withdraw some of its unkinder remarks about Ogden.
“Is it possible,” the newspaper inquired, “that these fantastic exploits really occurred? Did Ogden really have a life-or-death knife-fight at the top of the Eiffel tower with a Bulgarian spy? Did Yevgeny Akhmatov really conceal a miniature camera in his cuff-link? Did Sylvia von Hubschen really smuggle atomic secrets in her brassiere? After the British Home Secretary’s performance in Parliament, we must now give these amazing stories serious consideration.”
With a note of relief, the Los Angeles Times ran a “we-told-you-so” editorial: “Truth is stranger than fiction, and Ogden’s life story merely underlines this fact. There can be no further doubt about Ogden’s bona fides: the British Government has confirmed that he was one of their agents, and they do not dispute his version of events. Given the traditional British obsession with secrecy, this is the nearest we will ever get to an official confirmation that the memoirs are true.”
The British Press was not in a position to discuss Ogden’s veracity: under the terms of the Attorney-General’s court injunction, they were forbidden to repeat any of the stories. So apart from the odd remark about “James Bond-style plots” and “Bulldog Drummond prose”, they confined themselves to the question of Ogden’s legal status.
Why, asked the Daily Telegraph, had not Ogden been summarily arrested? The Times began to ask similar questions, but since no reply was forthcoming from the Government, the issue looked as if it might fizzle out.
Matters were quickly put right, however, by a retired army officer named Colonel Arthur Pelham-Crabwicke. The colonel was incensed by the Government’s vacillation and evasiveness on the subject of Clive Ogden, and he wrote to all the newspapers to tell them so. The colonel expressed himself in such forceful terms that almost all his letters were printed, including the following, which appeared in The Times:
Sir,
What has this nation come to when a dishonest, despicable blackguard like Clive Ogden can make complete fools of our authorities and go unpunished? What on earth is the Government playing at?
I met Ogden some thirty-six years ago—we used to play in the same cricket team—and even then I knew him to be a cad of the deepest dye. His sneaky, unprincipled yorkers and excessive appeals to the umpire indicated a low, unscrupulous personality, and we had no hesitation in running him out of our club. In retrospect, I feel he deserved a sound thrashing, and I wish I had administered one. Recent events have only strengthened this conviction.
It is well known that on several occasions—in Palestine, Malaya, etc.—the British authorities have found it expedient to “remove” certain subversive individuals who posed a serious threat to law and order. Perhaps it is time to revive this practice. If the nation’s present servants are too weak-kneed and unpatriotic to perform such a task, I for one would be more than willing to assist with the “disappearance” of Clive Ogden.
Yours very sincerely,
Arthur Pelham-Crabwicke, R.A. (Retd.)
The colonel’s letters provoked a flood of similar correspondence to the newspapers. It seemed that all over the country, retired officers were itching to wreak vengeance on Clive Ogden. The Home Secretary was compelled to make a speech in which he sympathised with the servicemen’s feelings, but urged them to remain calm and not take the law into their own hands.
If Ogden felt at all uneasy about these threats of violence and murder, he kept the fact well hidden. Indeed, he seemed to find the subject highly entertaining.
“Listen to this one,” he said, holding up a newspaper cutting. “‘Does Ogden wear dentures? He certainly will, if I get my hands on him.’ From Wing-Commander D.H.K. Medhurst. Is that one of yours, Vicar?”
“No,” Beauchamp said. “I wrote it.”
“Well done,” Ogden giggled. “I loved the one in the Express: ‘the Orientals had the right idea—if they talk, pull their tongues out. There should be no mercy for squealers. Admiral L. B. Smedley, R.N.’”
“That was mine,” the Vicar said.
“Really, Godfrey,” Sybil grimaced. “That’s disgusting.”
“Jolly funny though,” the Vicar sniggered.
“But don’t they check these letters?” Sybil asked. “I mean, there are lists of retired officers, aren’t there?”
“Of course there are,” Ogden said. “Where do you think we found all these names?”
“I wonder what the real Arthur Pelham-Crabwicke thinks of all this,” the Laird said. “He must be bloody furious.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Ogden said. “He probably agrees with every line I wrote on his behalf. And if he doesn’t—well, so what?”
“What if he complains?”
“Let him,” Ogden shrugged. “It’s up to the papers to vet their correspondence. I say, listen to this: ‘We can begin by birching the fellow. Then, when he’s black and blue and screaming for mercy, he should be made to eat every copy of his autobiography. Like your other correspondents, I would be delighted to do the job myself
. We did it at Cawnpore—we can do it again.’ Marvellous stuff. Who wrote it?”
“Not me,” said the Laird.
“Or me,” said the Vicar.
“Jeremy?”
“Afraid not,” Beauchamp said.
The friends looked uneasily at each other, and Ogden dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief.
“Good Lord,” he breathed. “It’s a real one!”
He picked up a nearby copy of the Army List, and looked up the correspondent’s name.
“Brigadier-General Rupert Fellowes…oh, thank heavens.”
He shut the book and sighed in relief.
“Panic over, chaps. He’s eighty-six.”
Chapter Nine
“IT’S A FUCKING JOKE,” Stringer said bitterly. “Have you seen this crap?”
The D-G sighed, and glanced over the relevant column of the latest Baltimore Bugle, which the British Embassy had obligingly sent over by fax.
“Christ,” he muttered. “Listen to this: ‘Krauss slashed the knife down towards my head with terrifying speed. I reached up and caught his wrist in the nick of time—the blade stopped just millimetres from my throat. Then, with one sharp twist, I broke his arm.’ How can anyone believe this garbage?”
“But they do,” Stringer said.
The D-G screwed up the article and tossed it into his wastepaper basket.
“Of course,” he said, “our friends think it’s hilarious. The CIA Director telexed me to ask if Ogden could be brought out of retirement to take a few pictures of some Soviet missile silo.”
“Fucking Yanks,” Stringer groaned.
“And ASIO told us they think Ogden was a Soviet infiltrator, because he’s smarter than any pommie spy they’ve ever heard of.”
“Ha bloody ha ha.”
“Unfortunately,” the D-G said, “it’s getting beyond a joke.”
He picked up a wad of notes and memos from his desk.
“From the Foreign Office. The Home Office. Even the PM. Basically, they all say the same thing: what the hell are we doing about Ogden?”
Stringer shook his head.
“I don’t get it,” he said. “I thought the Attorney-General was cooking something up.”
“That was just for public consumption. The Law Officers are adamant: any prosecution they brought would almost certainly be thrown out immediately. And even if they could find an amenable judge, no jury would ever convict. The Government would just get even more egg on its face. No, they insist the ball’s back in our court.”
“And what are we supposed to do? Take Ogden out, like that Colonel suggested?”
The D-G’s face screwed up in disgust.
“That was another hoax,” he said. “All those letters were written by Ogden and his cronies.”
“I might have bloody known,” Stringer cried. “Jesus Christ, I thought old people were supposed to behave responsibly.”
“Well,” the D-G said, “they call it second childhood, don’t they? Look at the way Ogden chews that bubble-gum. Quite pathetic. But unfortunately, these toddlers are making a hell of a nuisance of themselves. So, what do we propose to do about them?”
Stringer shrugged.
“I could pay another visit to Ogden, I guess. The last call wasn’t good enough to persuade him, so we’ll have to do it properly this time. If we broke all the fingers in his writing hand, and maybe his leg as well, he might start to get the message.”
The D-G shook his head.
“Out of the question. He’s news now.”
“All right—how about threatening a relative?”
“Possible,” said the D-G. “Anyone suitable?”
“Just a daughter in New Zealand. Married, with a baby son. Ogden’s never seen his grandchild, but he still wouldn’t like it if we—”
“No,” said the D-G. “New Zealand’s too risky. If anything went wrong, the natives would crucify us. Remember those frogs who blew up the Greenpeace ship. Are there no other relations?”
“None we could find,” Stringer said. “There are some friends, but none are close enough to assure us of leverage. Except, of course, for Croft, Beauchamp and Buchanan—but Ogden has made it known that they’re his co-authors.”
“In that case, we’d better rule out the heavy stuff. For the time being, at any rate.”
Stringer lit a cigarette and tossed the match into the D-G’s ashtray.
“What’s left?” he said.
The D-G leaned back in his chair and thought about it. After a couple of minutes, he made up his mind.
“There’s only one thing we can do,” he decided. “Discredit the memoirs.”
Stringer gave a sardonic laugh.
“That shouldn’t be hard. The bloody thing discredits itself.”
“No, you’re missing my point. The only reason Ogden’s getting so much publicity is because the Government can’t officially deny his stories. Well, unofficially it’s another matter. I see no reason why we can’t give an off-the-record Press briefing, and explain that these so-called memoirs are all made up.”
“I don’t like it,” Stringer said. “If that’s all that’s needed, why hasn’t Downing Street done it already? They hand out unattributable briefings like confetti.”
“They’re too close to this one,” the D-G said. “The PM has made this confidentiality business an issue of principle. But we haven’t, and if something goes wrong, Downing Street can truthfully claim they know nothing about it.”
Stringer frowned pensively and blew out a long cloud of smoke.
“I’m still not crazy about the idea,” he said.
“Nor am I,” the D-G admitted. “But can you improve on it?”
“Not off-hand,” Stringer said.
“Good,” said the D-G. “In that case, would you mind organising it?”
He glanced at his desk diary.
“Let’s say Friday morning.”
“Why not?” Stringer shrugged.
Chapter Ten
“YOU KNOW, VICAR,” Beauchamp said, “this really is a nice piece.” He was examining the antique clock above the mantelpiece in the Vicar’s drawing-room.
“Yes,” the Vicar said. “It is quite pretty, isn’t it?”
“I never really looked at it before. Eighteenth-century French. Very good condition.”
“Careful, Vicar,” said the Laird. “I see dollar-signs in Jeremy’s eyes.”
“If he names a price,” Ogden advised, “insist on ten times more.”
“It was my grandmother’s,” Sybil said warily. “And I’m not interested in its cash value. It has great sentimental—”
“I was just curious,” Beauchamp said.
He took the clock down and examined it closely.
“As I thought. A boulle bracket clock by Roquelon of Paris. You know, this is quite rare.”
Sybil’s haughtiness melted slightly.
“Is it very—I mean, is it greatly sought after?”
“I’d say so,” Beauchamp said. “It would fetch a very good price. Five, six thousand. Perhaps more.”
“My word,” said the Vicar. “We had no idea.”
Sybil’s eyes widened, and she gazed at the clock with a new fascination.
“I never realised—I mean, I knew it was valuable, but…Jeremy, do you know anything about jewellery?”
“A little,” Beauchamp said.
“You see, Grandma left me some of her things: brooches, rings, and a few lockets…”
“Let’s see ’em,” Beauchamp said.
The possibility of unexpected wealth took twenty years off Sybil, and she scuttled upstairs with girlish speed.
“You’re not pulling her leg, are you, Jeremy?” the Vicar said anxiously. “She’ll only take it out on me.”
“I don’t joke about antiques,” Beauchamp sniffed.
“Never mind all that,” Ogden said. “Have you read this morning’s papers? It says here that ‘security sources’ have made it known that my memoirs are a fantasy, and th
at I was just an MI5 paper-pusher.”
“Aha,” said the Laird. “I wondered what their next move would be.”
“How did they arrange that?” asked the Vicar.
“An unattributable briefing,” Beauchamp said. “I once gave one of those. It’s quite handy, really. The Press are such sheep, they’ll believe anything you tell them, providing it comes with a nod and a wink.”
“So that’s it, then,” the Laird said. “The game’s up.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, we’ve been exposed, haven’t we? Now everyone knows.”
“Nonsense,” Ogden said.
“But if MI5 have rubbished the memoirs—”
“They’ve tried to rubbish them,” Ogden said. “They haven’t necessarily succeeded.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look,” Ogden said patiently, “suppose the memoirs were genuine—”
“But they’re not.”
“Suppose they were. What would MI5 do?”
“Precisely the same thing,” said the Vicar. “They’d hold a briefing and deny their authenticity.”
“Exactly,” Ogden smiled. “So who’s going to believe them?”
“Our newspapers, for a start.”
Ogden waved his hand dismissively.
“They don’t count,” he said. “All that should concern us is what the Americans think. And I expect them to be a little less gullible than our people.”
He glanced at his watch.
“The American papers should all be out by now. Miss Chambers said she would phone me with their reaction as soon as she heard.”
Sybil returned with her jewellery box, which she handed to Beauchamp.
“There’s one brooch in particular,” she said, “which I’m sure is very—er—rare.”
Sybil would never bring herself to utter words such as “valuable” or “expensive” in this context.
“This one?” Beauchamp said.
He drew out a brooch with matching earrings. They were made of gold and amethyst, and Beauchamp virtually salivated over them.
“Gorgeous,” he declared. “1840 to 1850. Immaculate. Worth at least a thousand—”