by Bob Cook
“What now?” Ogden asked.
“Let me explain,” said the Vicar.
He pointed to one of several large pairs of racks, about ten feet high by thirteen feet wide, which stood face to face and were covered with arrays of electrical contacts.
“Each of these is called a distribution frame. The lines come in from the clients’ phones and are fitted to the rear rack in street order. That’s called the ‘line side’ of the frame. The front rack is called the ‘exchange side’: its contacts are all in number sequence.”
“The clients’ phone numbers?”
“Precisely. The two frames are linked by all those multi-coloured wires, which are called ‘jumpers’. The jumpers cross-connect each incoming line to the appropriate number on the exchange side. This is the last point on the phone circuit where a client’s phone can be separated from all the others.”
“And therefore the last point at which a phone can be tapped?”
“Correct. So all we have to do is find Mr Blake’s number, and look at the circuit.”
He looked at his note-pad, and found the number, which he then located on the frame.
“Here we are. Now, what usually happens is that the tap consists of a wire on the line side, which is disguised as one of the ordinary jumpers. This phoney jumper is fitted to something called a ‘junction’ here on the exchange side. The junction is a connection reserved for a spare line leading to the main telephone network. But this junction doesn’t connect with the network: it leads to the nearest Group Switching Centre, and through to the main eavesdropping centre in London.”
“Crafty,” Ogden nodded.
“And there’s no way the staff here could ever spot it.”
“In that case, how can you?”
“Simple,” the Vicar grinned. “Back here on the line side, each connection has its own fuse—a standard safety precaution. But Mr Blake’s connection has a red fuse.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s a warning to the engineers: do not touch under any circumstances. The red fuse is used with priority numbers: essential services, such as doctors and fire brigades.”
“And people who are being tapped?”
“Just so. Now our friend Blake is nobody in particular, and he doesn’t have a priority number. So this has to be a tap.”
“Well done, Vicar!” Ogden exclaimed.
“It’s all different in the new digital exchanges,” the Vicar added. “The tapping is done by completely separate means, which are impossible to spot. That’s why I asked Blake if his exchange had been modernised. We were quite lucky, really.”
“I suppose so,” Ogden said. “Well, shall we go?”
“Wait a minute,” said the Vicar. “Now we know that Blake really is being tapped, are we going to pursue the matter?”
“I don’t know,” Ogden shrugged. “Hadn’t we better discuss that at home?”
“Yes, but it just occurred to me that if we’re going to have further dealings with Blake, we could do him and ourselves a big favour.”
“What’s that?”
“Take the tap off his phone.”
Ogden’s face erupted into a broad grin.
“What a lovely idea,” he said. “But the tappers will know about it at once when their line goes dead, won’t they?”
“Oh, I wasn’t proposing to disconnect the tapping circuit,” the Vicar said. “Just move it elsewhere.”
With some effort, Ogden managed to stop himself laughing out loud.
“Brilliant,” he giggled. “Absolutely inspired.”
“I thought you’d approve,” the Vicar nodded. “Well, here goes.”
He opened his tool-kit and went to work on the frame. Twenty minutes later, he had transferred the tap from Blake’s line to another one on a nearby distribution frame.
“Heaven knows whose line it is,” the Vicar shrugged. “But I bet the boys in London will take weeks to realise what’s happened. Very well, let’s go home.”
They went to the office and said goodnight to Jack.
“All in order,” the Vicar said briskly. “And don’t forget, we were never here.”
“Right you are,” Jack said, giving them a broad wink. “I haven’t seen a thing.”
“Good man,” Ogden said.
They left the exchange, and returned to the van. Three hours later, Ogden and the Vicar were back in London.
Chapter Fourteen
TWO DAYS LATER, when Ogden & Co. had caught up on their lost sleep, they met Mr Blake on Wandsworth Common once again. There were no cricketers out today, and the only people around were two or three young mothers with prams. The weather had turned gloomy once more, which seemed to suit Mr Blake’s melancholy mood: not surprisingly, Blake was scarcely pleased by what Ogden & Co. had to tell him.
“It doesn’t surprise me, of course. But it’s still not very agreeable to learn that you’re being spied on by your own authorities.”
“I wouldn’t be too upset,” the Vicar said. “It can happen to the nicest people, you know.”
“Are you still interested in helping me?” Blake asked. “Of course, I’ll understand perfectly if you say ‘no’.”
“On the contrary,” Ogden said, “we’d be delighted to help. It’s a fascinating business—”
“And to be honest,” said the Laird, “we’ve nothing better to do.”
“Besides,” Beauchamp said, “the first payments for Clive’s memoirs have come through, so we can afford to do a spot of travelling.”
“Ah yes,” Blake said. “The memoirs. I’ve just been reading a copy someone lent me.”
There was a curious glint in Mr Blake’s eye, and he gazed steadily at Ogden.
“You’ve clearly had an action-packed life,” he observed.
“Oh, indeed,” Ogden coughed. “It was all go. Anyway, about your colleague…”
“Yes,” Blake said. “What do you propose to do?”
“We’ve talked this through,” Ogden said, “and we’ve decided that each of us will handle a separate strand of the inquiry. The Laird here—I mean, Mr Buchanan—knows something about shipping, and he’s going to try and track down the elusive SS Flavio and its captain. Mr Beauchamp is going to look for the equally elusive Dutchman, Lemiers. And I shall go to the United States and find out about Magnum Inc. and the even more elusive Colonel Kyle—after I’ve had a chat with David Symes.”
“That sounds excellent,” Blake said gratefully. “I can try to cover most of your expenses—”
“Forget it,” said the Laird. “As we’ve said, we’ve just been paid something for the memoirs.”
“And I have to go to the United States anyway,” Ogden added. “There’s a Mr Cyrus X. Stompfweiner III in Baltimore who’s simply dying to meet me.”
“If only he knew,” Beauchamp grinned.
“And there are a number of television stations who seem very eager for me to appear on their programmes.”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” the Vicar advised.
“I’ll do my best,” Ogden said gravely.
“Tell me,” Blake said. “Did you—did you really jump out of an aeroplane without a parachute?”
“Eh?” Ogden said. “Well…”
The friends glanced at each other, and made a silent decision. “It was either that,” Beauchamp said, “or be cut to pieces by Akhmatov’s mad axeman.”
“A terrible choice,” the Laird sympathised.
“And if you think that was bad,” the Vicar said, “you should read the next instalment. Something about being lowered head-first into a vat of sulphuric acid.”
“While bound in a strait-jacket,” Ogden added. “Real Perils of Pauline stuff.”
Mr Blake shifted uncomfortably.
“I see,” he murmured. “It does all sound rather incredible.”
“That,” Ogden explained, “is because it’s all tripe. One hundred per cent piffle. But it’s a living, isn’t it?”
Chapter Fiftee
n
BRIGADIER DAVID SYMES was one of those lucky people who are virtually unscathed by middle age. He was in his early fifties, but his face was scarcely lined, and his physique had remained unchanged in over thirty years. His hair had turned completely white, but paradoxically this only reinforced his youthful appearance. Sitting next to Ogden in the Special Forces Club, he could easily have passed for the old man’s son.
“Delighted to see you, Clive,” he said, taking a sip of his Scotch and soda. “I’m sorry I didn’t reply to your message sooner, but I’ve been out of the country for the last few weeks. In fact, I only returned yesterday afternoon, and found your letter under a pile of other stuff.”
“Not to worry,” Ogden said, waving his hand. “It wasn’t screamingly urgent. I’ve been rather busy myself, with the memoirs and all the attendant nonsense.”
“Ah yes,” Symes nodded. “I had heard something about your autobiography. Everyone’s doing it now, aren’t they? I’m surprised you’re still in the country.”
“Why?”
“Well, aren’t they prosecuting you?”
“No,” Ogden said. “At least, not to my knowledge.”
“But I thought that was their policy?”
“So did I,” Ogden shrugged. “Perhaps they’ve changed their minds. I take it you haven’t read any of it?”
“Not yet,” Symes admitted. “In fact, I know next to nothing about it. I’ve been up to my eyeballs in work, you see…”
“Of course, of course,” Ogden said sympathetically. “Anyway, you’ll be relieved to hear that you’re not mentioned.”
“Fine,” Symes grinned. “Who is?”
“Er…nobody, actually. At least, nobody is mentioned by their true name.”
“That’s sensible,” Symes observed. “Perhaps it’s why you aren’t being prosecuted.”
“Possibly. Who knows? Anyway, you must be wondering why I wanted to see you.”
“I was curious.”
“It’s on behalf of a friend of mine,” Ogden said. “He’s trying to track down some American chappie in the arms trade. I remembered you were in that line of country, so I thought I’d see if you knew him.”
“What’s his name?”
“Kyle, Brutus Kyle. Apparently he’s a former Marine colonel, or something of the sort. Do you know him?”
“Vaguely,” Symes said. “He’s put some business my way once or twice. But I know why your friend is having trouble finding him.”
“Really?”
“Kyle’s gone AWOL. His company ceased trading recently, and the man seems to have gone to ground.”
“Any idea why?”
“I’m not sure,” Symes said. “He organised a deal recently that went badly wrong. Funnily enough, I was involved in that. You see, I found him a supplier for a medium-sized order. Later, I heard that the deal had blown up, and Kyle had lost a packet. I’d have thought his cash-flow situation would have been good enough to take the strain, but perhaps it wasn’t. You only need one or two such disasters to go bust.”
“Indeed,” Ogden nodded. “So Colonel Kyle could now be sweeping out elephant’s cages in some zoo?”
“Quite possibly,” Symes grinned. “Though there was another rumour…”
“Yes?”
Symes frowned uneasily.
“I stress it’s just a rumour. You see, Kyle’s a funny chap. A very…single-minded fellow. No sense of humour that I could ever discern. He’s capable of the worst sort of dewy-eyed sentimentality, but he never smiles.”
“Sounds just my type,” Ogden said.
“But he was a fine soldier, by all accounts,” Symes added hastily. “Purple Heart, and all the rest of it. But—well, the fellow lacks proportion.”
“So what’s the rumour?”
Symes shook his head sadly.
“Apparently, he’s got God in a big way. Oh, I’ve nothing against the Bible squad, you understand, provided they don’t get in people’s way. Nothing wrong with the occasional spot of religion—”
“Provided it’s occasional and comes in spots,” Ogden agreed.
“Exactly,” Symes nodded. “That’s why I’m a C of E man. But the Americans do it rather differently, I’m afraid. They make a great palaver out it, don’t they? Big razzmatazz.”
“Hollywood has a lot to answer for,” Ogden observed.
“Yes. All this ‘born again’ business. People taking headers into the blood of Christ. Pretty hysterical, don’t you think?”
“And Colonel Kyle has been reborn?”
“So I hear. As a matter of fact, it’s been suggested that the colonel’s conversion has less to do with God than with an old skull injury he picked up during the Tet offensive. Apparently there’s still a fair amount of shrapnel floating around Kyle’s bonce.”
“Oh dear,” Ogden said. “So if Kyle isn’t sweeping out elephant’s cages, he could well be a fundamentalist preacher.”
“Right,” Symes said. “But whatever the truth is—yes?”
The Brigadier was interrupted by a discreet tap on the shoulder from one of the club staff.
“Telephone, sir.”
“Okay,” Symes nodded. “Back in a jiff, Clive.”
While the brigadier was taking his call, Ogden reflected on the relevance of Colonel Kyle to the investigation. If Kyle’s company had been bankrupted by the disappearance of SS Flavio, it meant that Kyle was merely another victim of the swindle, and would have no useful information to offer. And the colonel’s sudden attack of religious zealotry had even less bearing on the subject. It seemed that Colonel Kyle and Magnum Inc. of Denver would not offer a fruitful line of inquiry.
When Brigadier Symes returned, there was a troubled expression on his face.
“This is all very embarrassing,” he said. “Did you know that you’ve been blacklisted, Clive?”
“Really?” Ogden said innocently. “By whom?”
“Er, just about everybody, it seems. Sorry about this, but—well, you’re now classed as a security risk.”
“My God,” Ogden breathed, trying very hard to look surprised. “When did it happen?”
“No idea,” Symes said, “but I think it’s something to do with your memoirs. You’re not very popular, apparently.”
“That’s outrageous,” Ogden snorted.
“I suppose it is,” Symes said unhappily. “I’m most dreadfully sorry, old man. It’s very awkward for me, you know. What we’ve just been talking about—”
“Classified?”
“Absolutely. I don’t know why, but Kyle’s a bit of a touchy issue at the moment. I’m not supposed to…dear oh dear.”
“Don’t worry,” Ogden said soothingly. “We never discussed it.”
Symes gazed at him anxiously. “You’re sure about that?”
“Mum’s the word,” Ogden insisted. “Shan’t tell a soul.”
Symes’ face melted into a relieved grin. “That’s very sporting of you, Clive. I’m much obliged.”
Ogden smiled benevolently.
“Anything for a pal,” he said.
Chapter Sixteen
THE D-G RAN A DISTRESSED hand through his hair.
“Ogden again,” he complained. “That man is impossible. What exactly happened?”
“Someone spotted the two of them talking in the Special Forces Club,” Stringer said. “He checked with us, and we got straight onto Symes. No damage done, as far as I can tell.”
“What did Ogden want?”
“He was asking about Kyle, the American.”
There was a long silence.
“And that’s all?” the D-G asked.
“So Symes says. And he insists he’s been discreet. But I still don’t like it.”
“Quite,” the D-G agreed. “I’ve had my bellyful of Ogden, I really have.”
He picked up the latest edition of the Baltimore Bugle, and read out the headline in disgust.
“‘Philby: the Akhmatov Connection’.”
“Oh no,” Str
inger groaned.
“Oh yes. ‘After all these years, the truth can now be revealed. The mysterious agent who recruited Kim Philby to communism and controlled his activities was none other than Yevgeny Akhmatov… “I warned them about Philby for years,” Ogden says, “but they wouldn’t listen.”’”
“Bollocks,” Stringer observed.
“What can we do?” the D-G said. “Denying this rubbish doesn’t seem to work. They think we’re just covering up. And I take it you’re having no luck.”
“None,” Stringer admitted. “We’ve tried virtually everything: we’ve checked Ogden’s bank accounts and those of his mates, going back thirty years. Clean as a whistle. Beauchamp ran an antique business, so we thought we’d find some dirt there. Can you believe it? Beauchamp must be the only honest dealer in the whole history of the antiques trade. He didn’t make a penny out of it. And the others are no better.”
“Never mind,” said the D-G. “Keep trying. You never know what might turn up.”
“It’s the wrong approach,” Stringer said. “We should be getting tough with these people. And it’s time the Government changed its policy on memoirs.”
“In what way?”
“If the Prime Minister stood up and categorically rejected this bullshit, the problem would disappear.”
The D-G shook his head.
“I rather doubt it,” he said. “You see, it’s too late for that. The papers will still scream ‘lies’ and ‘cover-up’, and there’ll be even more egg on the PM’s face.”
“Maybe,” Stringer conceded. “But this business with Symes bothers me. Someone’s got to tell Ogden to piss off out of it.”
“In theory, you’re right,” the D-G said. “But wouldn’t it just encourage him to do it again? You know what he’s like.”
“True,” Stringer said. “But people like Ogden should be dissuaded from approaching former colleagues. Firmly dissuaded.”
The D-G smiled wryly.
“You’re still dying to break his legs, aren’t you?”
“I hate the old bastard,” Stringer said savagely. “He’s an arrogant, self-satisfied dick-head. Thinks he can do what the fuck he likes.”