Paper Chase

by Bob Cook

  Before Sybil could react to this news, the phone rang, and she went to answer it.

  “Hello?” she barked. “Yes, he’s here.”

  She thrust the receiver at Ogden as if it were a dagger, and turned back to Beauchamp.

  “Are you quite sure about that…”

  “Hello?” Ogden said. “Fine, thank you, Miss Chambers, and how are you?…Indeed?…Yes, by all means.”

  Ogden produced a note-pad from his pocket and took down Miss Chambers’ dictation. When she had finished, he chuckled and said, “Yes, it’s excellent news. Thank you for calling, Miss Chambers. Cheerio.”

  “Well?” the Laird demanded.

  “As I expected,” Ogden beamed. “The Yanks aren’t having any of it. If anything, MI5’s behaviour has strengthened their belief in the truth of my memoirs.”

  “Splendid,” said the Vicar.

  The Laird blew out a long, thoughtful cloud of pipe-smoke. “You know what?” he said. “I think we should send another letter to the newspapers from a retired serviceman. ‘Dear Sir—why are MI5 pussyfooting around? What is the point of issuing lame denials, which nobody will believe, when the real answer is to drag Ogden out and give him a public birching? Yours, etc.”

  “Definitely,” Ogden nodded. “Furthermore, we should—”

  The phone rang once more. Sybil gave an impatient hiss and snatched up the receiver.

  “Yes? One moment. It’s for you again, Clive.”

  “Really?” Ogden blinked. “I wasn’t expecting any further calls. Hello?”

  An unfamiliar, muffled voice came down the line.

  “Mr Ogden? Please listen. I’m in a call-box with little change, so please don’t interrupt. I have been reading your memoirs, and I think you could offer me help in a very delicate matter concerning a mutual friend—”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Not now, Mr Ogden. Can I meet you tomorrow? Somewhere discreet. Outdoors, preferably.”

  “Well—I suppose—”

  “It’s very important, Mr Ogden, and you’re the only person I know who can help.”

  “Am I?” Ogden blinked.

  “I think so.”

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “I guessed. Mr Croft’s name was linked to yours in a newspaper article, and his number is in the directory. Bring him too, if he is willing to come.”

  “Oh, very well,” Ogden said. “Shall we say Wandsworth Common, at three P.M. tomorrow?”

  “Fine. Where on the Common?”

  “By the cricket ground. We’ll be on the path adjoining the tennis courts—”

  “I know it.”

  The newspaper caught Ogden’s eye, and a suspicion occurred to him.

  “This isn’t a hoax, is it?” he asked.

  “No, Mr Ogden.”

  “How can I be sure?”

  There was a pause at the other end of the line, and the voice said, “Do you remember Gerald Carter?”

  Ogden scratched his head.

  “Why, yes, I do. He was with me in—what’s the matter with him?”

  “He’s dead. See you tomorrow, Mr Ogden.”

  The man hung up. Ogden put the phone down, and gazed at his colleagues in stupefaction.

  “You won’t believe this,” he said.

  “Who was it?”

  “I don’t know,” Ogden said, and he recounted the conversation.

  “A joke,” said the Laird. “Has to be.”

  “Yes,” Sybil said. “I definitely smell a rat.”

  “What does it matter?” Ogden said. “The Common’s not far from here. If it is a hoax, the worst we’ll suffer is a pleasant stroll.”

  “I’m game,” Beauchamp said, and the other men nodded.

  “What if it’s some kind of trap?” Sybil said. “Somebody waiting to kidnap you?”

  “In broad daylight?” Ogden laughed. “All three of us? I rather doubt it. And besides, there will be people playing in the tennis courts, and there’ll probably be a cricket match in progress.”

  “You think so?” the Vicar said eagerly. “In that case, I’m definitely going.”

  Sybil shook her head.

  “Well, I can’t stop you. But if you’ll take my advice, you’ll stay at home.”

  She turned to Beauchamp and said, “Now, what do you think of this cameo?”

  Chapter Eleven

  PIETER LEMIERS LOOKED at his watch. It was quarter to eleven. He pushed his papers aside and rubbed his eyes. That was quite enough work for one day, he decided. Time to be going.

  There was nobody else in the office. The last of the staff had gone home five hours before, leaving their boss alone with his books. Lemiers had an important meeting tomorrow morning: with luck, he should be able to clinch a lucrative deal for his firm. He did not propose to blow that deal through lack of preparation.

  He put his papers back into their file and turned off his desk-lamp. Just as he was about to put on his jacket, his office door swung open, and a large man stepped in.

  “Hello?” Lemiers said. “Who are you?”

  The man ignored the question, and closed the door.

  “How did you get in? It’s supposed to be locked downstairs.”

  The man paced around Lemiers’ office, like an expectant father in a maternity clinic. Lemiers was a patient man, but it was late, and his visitor’s behaviour would have exasperated a Buddhist monk.

  “Will you please answer my question?” he snapped.

  His visitor stared indignantly at Lemiers, and wagged an admonitory finger in his direction.

  “Gird up thy loins like a man,” he said. “I will question thee.”

  Lemiers picked up the phone and dialled.

  “Hello? Please get me the police.”

  The man ran across the office and brought his hand down onto the receiver hook.

  Before Lemiers had a chance to protest, the phone cable was torn out of its socket, and the instrument flung across the room.

  “Because thou hast done this,” the man bellowed, “cursed art thou above all wild cattle and above all wild animals. Upon thy belly thou shalt go.”

  He grabbed Lemiers and threw him onto the carpet.

  “What are you doing?” Lemiers panted. “Look—if it’s money you want, I think there’s some in the safe—”

  The man snorted in disgust, and planted a foot on Lemiers’ chest.

  “All right,” Lemiers said. “What do you want, then? Information, perhaps?”

  Lemiers tried desperately to think who this man could be. Like all successful businessmen, he had some enemies—one or two rivals, and a former partner—but none would ever send such a man to injure him. The only possibility was that this man had something to do with the Paris job. It seemed unlikely, but…

  “Are you from Invicta?” he asked. “If you are, I swear I’ve got nothing to hide. Honestly, there’s no secret about—”

  The man seemed unimpressed.

  “The secret things belong to the Lord our God,” he said cryptically. “But the things that are revealed belong to us.”

  “The Lord?” Lemiers repeated. “Who are you? Some kind of maniac? Listen, whoever you are, you may think God’s on your side, but the police certainly aren’t. If you’ll take my advice—”

  “Who is this that darkens counsel by words without knowledge?” the man thundered. “The Lord hears when I call to him.”

  “Yes,” Lemiers agreed desperately. “Anything you say. Now if you’ll just get your foot off my chest…”

  “‘I will vent my wrath on my enemies, and avenge myself on my foes,’ sayeth the Lord.”

  The man drew out a pistol and aimed it at Lemiers’ face.

  “No,” Lemiers shouted. “Please—”

  The man fired four times, and stepped back. He put away the gun and went to the door. Casting one last glance at Lemiers’ body, he murmured, “Thus sayeth the Lord: ‘The dead bodies of men shall fall like dung upon the open field’.”

 
And with that uplifting thought, the man turned off the light and went away.

  Chapter Twelve

  “IT’S IN THE AIR,” Ogden observed. “He must be…”

  “Out,” Beauchamp said.

  “Well caught, sir,” the Vicar called out.

  The batsman left the crease, and Ogden & Co. applauded his innings. They were the only spectators that afternoon: it was not warm, and the sky had turned an ominous shade of sepia. Even the nearby tennis courts were unattended; the cricketers seemed mildly bemused by the four garrulous, dishevelled old men huddled together on one park bench, but they acknowledged their clapping with good grace, and returned the applause whenever Ogden blew a particularly large gum-bubble.

  “He was unlucky,” said the Vicar, as the new batsman took his position. “He looked to be in line for a quick fifty.”

  “Unlucky my foot,” said the Laird. “That ball was unplayable. Hello, is this our chap?”

  They turned and saw a middle-aged man in a shabby overcoat walking slowly up the path towards them. He was probably in his late fifties, but looked older: his face was of a yellowish complexion, and the deep lines around his neck suggested that he had lost a lot of weight in a hurry. There was a sad, exhausted air about him, and the friends secretly hoped that he was not their man.

  “Good afternoon,” he said. “Is one of you Mr Ogden?”

  “That’s me,” Ogden nodded. “You didn’t tell me your name.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” the man replied. “Though you’ll understand why, presently. I’m Jonathan Blake.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Ogden said, and he introduced his friends. “Now, what’s all this about Gerald Carter?”

  “He’s been murdered,” Blake said.

  “Good grief,” Ogden exclaimed. “Why? Who did it?”

  “I don’t know,” Blake said. “That’s why I wanted to see you. Gerald once mentioned that you worked with him in Intelligence—”

  “That’s right,” Ogden nodded. “He left several years before I retired, and we didn’t keep in touch. We weren’t close, but I knew him reasonably well. I’m sorry to hear—well, what on earth happened?”

  “It’s quite a long story,” Blake warned, “and I’d like you to hear it all, if you have the time.”

  “Fire away,” said the Laird, waving his pipe. “We’ve nothing better to do. Shift along, chaps.”

  They moved along their seat, and made room for the lugubrious Mr Blake.

  “Gerald and I were partners,” Blake began. “We owned a company called Invicta Design and Development, based in Kent, which sold arms and security equipment. I handled domestic clients—the police mainly, and one or two gun clubs. Gerald dealt with the international side, using contacts he’d made while working in security. You must understand right away that we were a perfectly legitimate company—at least, as far as I was concerned.”

  “There’s nothing legitimate about the international arms trade,” the Vicar murmured.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Blake said, nodding slowly. “But that wasn’t my department, and I assumed that Gerald’s side of the business was as above board as my own. I suppose I was naïve.

  “Anyway, some six months ago I fell ill. I won’t bore you with the details, but suffice it to say that I spent a long time in hospital, and left the business in Gerald’s hands. What I know about subsequent events is almost entirely second-hand—either from Gerald himself, or other people.

  “While I was in hospital, Gerald was contacted by a Dutch arms dealer named Lemiers who was based in Paris, and had something to sell. He’d never heard of Lemiers before, but it’s not unusual to get offers like that: names are passed around grapevines, you see, and certain companies become known for dealing in certain goods. Anyway, Lemiers seemed to know what he was talking about, and his wares were right up our street.”

  “What were they?” Ogden asked.

  “It was quite a big load, a job lot from the Israeli government. They were offering him things like sniper rifles with day- and night-sights, and sub-machine-guns with specialised fittings, such as infra-red detection devices, targetting systems, and so forth. But it wasn’t just guns: there were explosives, too—grenades, mines, linear cutting charges, and things like that.”

  “Was he offering a good price?”

  “It was very reasonable,” Blake said. “If Lemiers had broken the shipment up and sold it piecemeal, he’d probably have made a bigger profit. But that would have taken a long time, and he’d have run up heavy storage charges. So he preferred to sell it all off in one go and make slightly less. Nothing unusual in that.”

  “How did your partner react?”

  “Gerald was keen. He asked Lemiers for ten days to think it over, and the Dutchman agreed. Shortly afterwards, Gerald had lunch with one of his army contacts, a man called Brigadier Symes—”

  “David Symes?”

  “That’s right,” Blake nodded. “Do you know him?”

  “Yes,” Ogden said. “I worked abroad with him one time. We needed some Arab contacts, and David knows quite a few.”

  “He would,” Blake said. “He’s organised many arms deals involving Middle-Eastern governments. Anyway, Symes put a lot of business our way. Gerald used to have lunch with him once a month at the Special Forces Club in London, and Symes usually had a shopping list.”

  “He bought guns on behalf of our government?” Beauchamp said.

  “Not exactly,” Blake smiled. “There are some countries to whom the British government prefers not to be seen selling arms. Not necessarily for legal reasons; often it’s just a question of public relations.”

  “Tinpot dictators, and the like,” Ogden grinned.

  “Sometimes,” Blake admitted. “Anyway, in those cases, the Government puts the business our way, so the deal doesn’t go to some other country. Symes’ job is to put the relevant parties in touch with each other. On this occasion, the prospective client was an American ex-marine called Colonel Kyle, who ran a firm called Magnum Inc. of Colorado.”

  ‘“What did this American want?”

  “Machine guns and explosives,” Blake said. “And Symes thought he might be interested in the sniper rifles, as well. Symes didn’t know any more than that, but Gerald was keen, and Symes said he’d give Kyle our number.

  “Kyle got in touch two days later. He said he was quite impressed by Gerald’s package, and he’d be over the next day to discuss it.”

  “The next day? He was impressed.”

  “Evidently. When Gerald met him, Kyle explained that he wanted the arms quite badly, but there was a hitch: no end-user certificate.”

  “What does that mean?” asked the Laird.

  “An end-user certificate accompanies every legal arms transaction. It proves that the final destination for the arms—the end-user—is a country, and not some private gangster. Guns can be bought and re-sold any number of times, provided they are accompanied by one of these documents.”

  “But Kyle didn’t have one?”

  “No. As I said, I assumed Gerald’s side of the business was above board, and that he wouldn’t dream of making an illegal transaction of that sort. Well, I was wrong. Kyle offered a big sum for the shipment—more than it was worth, I think—provided Gerald arranged the whole thing.

  “Of course, Gerald was taking all the risks: if the shipment was uncovered, he would be arrested. So Kyle agreed to pay the whole fee in advance, as a sweetener. They shook hands on it, and Gerald got back onto Lemiers.”

  “Where did Kyle want the arms sent?”

  “To his company, in the United States. Gerald explained the position to Lemiers, who seemed very understanding about the matter. Lemiers said he could obtain a forged Italian end-user cert., which would allow him to take the goods from the Israelis and ship them to Italy. The guns would then be disguised and sent to Naples, where Gerald would oversee the loading-up. Then they’d be shipped to Southampton, and transferred to another ship for the United S
tates.”

  “Couldn’t he find a ship heading directly to the States?”

  “No,” Blake said. “Gerald was Lemiers’ client, and the Dutchman insisted that he should take the goods off his hands. I suppose it ensured that Gerald couldn’t back off, if anything went wrong.”

  “I see,” Beauchamp said. “And how were the arms concealed?”

  “They were in special drums, disguised as chemicals: fertilisers or pesticides, or something of that sort. Anyway, Lemiers found a ship—the SS Flavio—and Gerald watched the drums being put on board. The boat left Naples on the specified date, and so did Gerald. He flew home and waited for the Flavio at Southampton. But it never arrived.”

  “Aha,” said the Laird. “The plot thickens.”

  “Gerald knew the ship would first be stopping in Gibraltar, so he phoned the port authorities there. The Flavio hadn’t even got that far. It simply vanished.”

  “Well bowled!” said the Vicar.

  “Naturally, Gerald tried to trace the ship,” Blake said, “but he couldn’t find it anywhere. So he told Colonel Kyle, who was not best pleased.”

  “I bet,” Ogden laughed. “What did Kyle do?”

  “What could he do? It was an illegal shipment, so they couldn’t go to the authorities. Gerald had paid the Dutchman for the arms, so Kyle couldn’t demand his money back. He just had to lump it.”

  “Ouch,” Ogden winced.

  “Exactly,” Blake nodded. “Gerald hadn’t lost anything, but he was still furious. If word got around that he’d been diddled so easily, nobody would do business with us. He was determined to find out what had become of the ship.”

  “Did he?” asked the Vicar.

  “Yes and no. The Flavio isn’t the first boat to have done a bunk with its cargo. Most of the time, the ships go to Beirut which of course hasn’t been policed for years. Gerald went to the Lebanon and asked around. He couldn’t get any precise details about the Flavio’s itinerary, but several people had spotted the ship in Turkey, and it was now rumoured to be in Cyprus. So Gerald flew over to Larnaca, but he never got a chance to look around the harbour: he checked into a hotel, and one hour later he was found dead in his room. His neck was broken.”