by Bob Cook
“What’s this about, Ogden?” he demanded.
“He says it’s rather important,” Stringer sneered.
“It’s about Colonel Kyle,” Ogden said. “I know the whole story now, and if you don’t drop all charges against me and my friends, everybody else will know the story as well.”
The D-G said nothing. He glanced uneasily at Stringer, who seemed wholly unperturbed.
“So what’s the story, then?” Stringer inquired.
“Kyle went mad, didn’t he?” Ogden said. “It didn’t happen overnight, but nobody did anything about it until it was too late. The fellow decided he was some kind of religious prophet, with a mission to bring about the apocalypse. He knew the Iraqis had a chemical warfare project, and he decided to give them a helping hand. So he ordered the chemicals from Lemiers and used Carter as his insurance policy, in case anything went wrong.
“In fact, nothing did go wrong. The chemicals reached Iraq, and Carter was left helpless. Unfortunately, Kyle grew increasingly mad. It got so bad that even his CIA bosses knew something must be done. And when they found out about the chemical shipment, they ordered him to shut down his company, and took away his staff. They should also have put Kyle in a lunatic asylum, but they didn’t. I suppose the fools just hoped he would quietly disappear.
“Kyle took it all rather badly. He thought he was going to be punished for shipping the chemicals, so he decided to destroy all the evidence, including everybody who knew about it. He murdered Carter, the investigator Hopkins, Lemiers, Captain Salvucci—and he tried to murder us.
“Now, what interests me is your role in this affair. When Blake tried to investigate his partner’s death, all doors were suddenly closed on him. You put a tap on his phone, and silenced anybody who might help him. In fact, you found everybody who’d ever worked with Carter and told them to shut up.
“That’s why you came to Jumbo Wagstaffe’s funeral and ordered me and my friends to keep quiet, isn’t it, Swinger? You weren’t really worried about anyone writing their memoirs—you just didn’t want us to speak to Blake. And I must say, Stinger, if you hadn’t been so bloody rude about the whole thing, we’d probably have done as you asked. But that’s all by the way.
“So, why did you take all these precautions? Because the CIA had been in touch with you and told you about Kyle. It was all terribly embarrassing, and if it got out, the stink would be appalling: the CIA selling chemical weapons to the Iraqis, and so on. Of course, it was just one rogue colonel, but try explaining that in the jolly old court of world opinion. And the British were implicated: it was Brigadier Symes who put Carter in touch with Kyle in the first place. So the best thing to do was batten down the hatches and pray to God that Kyle would vanish up his own arse. Meanwhile, the lunatic was murdering people all over the shop. I’d say very few people come out of this affair with credit, wouldn’t you?”
The D-G took a deep breath.
“And you’re threatening to make this story public?” he said.
“Spot on,” Ogden agreed. “Unless my friends and I are released immediately.”
“What if we refuse?” the D-G said. “You’re sealed off from the world now. You’ll be tried in camera, and you’ll be imprisoned in a maximum-security gaol. We’ll take out an injunction to stop your lawyers from revealing anything you tell them. You’ll be completely gagged.”
Ogden shook his head sadly.
“I may be old, but I’m not senile. The story’s out already. A few days ago, I sent a letter to a friend of mine in the United States. It contained an envelope which he was to give to a newspaper in the event of my imprisonment. That envelope contains the whole steamy tale.”
“I see,” said the D-G quietly.
“It appears…”
“It appears I’ve got you over a barrel,” Ogden laughed. ‘Now why don’t you accept defeat like a good chap, and let me go?”
“I’ll tell you why,” Stringer said.
He drew out a folded sheet of paper and dropped it on the desk in front of Ogden. Ogden did not need to open it: he knew precisely what it was.
“We aren’t stupid either,” Stringer grinned. “We intercepted that letter, steamed open the inner envelope, and took out your story. Bad luck.”
The D-G almost fainted with relief.
“Well done, Geoff,” he said. “For a moment there—”
“Piece of piss,” Stringer said nonchalantly.
“I’m impressed, Flinger,” Ogden nodded. “You must be smarter than you look. But that’s not so surprising, is it?”
The D-G stood up.
“Well,” he said, “if that’s all we have to discuss—”
“No it isn’t,” Ogden said. “You surprised me there, Stinker, I’ll admit that. But I’ve one more card to play. And I think you’ll agree, it’s the best of all.”
Stringer sighed impatiently.
“Yeah, I bet.”
“You see, the story’s got out by another means. It’s going to be published by the Baltimore Bugle, in my memoirs.”
“The latest instalment?”
“That’s right.”
“Bollocks,” Stringer said flatly. “We intercepted that fax transmission—it’s a typical piece of made-up crap.”
“It’s typical,” Ogden agreed, “but it isn’t crap. Do you have it to hand, by any chance?”
Stringer nodded and took the copy out of his file. He first showed it to the D-G, to confirm that the instalment was no different from its predecessors.
“I see one or two familiar names there,” the D-G said. “Carter, Lemiers, Kyle—but that’s all it amounts to. This has no relevance to the present issue.”
“But it has,” Ogden insisted. “Let’s take the last couple of paragraphs, for starters.”
The concluding paragraphs were typical of Ogden’s (or, more correctly, the Vicar’s) authorial style. They read:
“I called London, and warned them that the Dutchman had been abducted. By nightfall I had fresh orders: Brunhilde must be bought off, and the chemical formula retrieved immediately—front-line troops were endangered. The CIA then furnished us with gold currency obtained from a special account in Zurich. Quite clearly, the Company needed Lemiers more urgently than Akhmatov’s arms: they cabled from Denver, insisting that we make Brunhilde our top priority.
Of course, we didn’t know that International Villainy, Inc. were guarding Lemiers with ten Magnum pistols, an anti-aircraft gun, and three tons of explosive. But I wasn’t taking chances: Bertie Kyle gave me a Sten Gun, and Colonel Tompkins-Graham dropped by with a couple of grenades. (These had been illegally purchased from some black-market contacts in Iraq, but I did not propose to complain.) Finally, we located the Trieste safe-house, and shipped our armaments to a nearby position. Italian agents offered encouragement, but didn’t have the nerve to participate. Not for nothing are wops reputed to be cowards!
Akhmatov’s base now awaited us—with the vital, stolen chemical…”
“You’ll know from my records,” Ogden said, “that I was at Bletchley during the war. Learned a few codes, cipher techniques, and so on. Have you ever heard of the telephone trick?”
“No,” said the D-G.
“You take a certain number of digits and group them to look like a phone number. Let’s say the number’s 01-894 7896. The 01 prefix is a red herring, to make it look like a genuine London number. The rest of the numbers are your code, and to decipher the message you start at the very last word, and work backwards. So the first word here is ‘chemical’. Then you count back eight letters—that gives you the word ‘base’. Go back another nine letters, and you have the word ‘for’.”
“I get the idea,” Stringer said. “Where’s all this leading?”
“If you go through those final paragraphs,” Ogden said, “you’ll get this.”
He took Stringer’s pencil, ringed all the appropriate letters, and wrote out the message: CHEMICAL BASE FOR NERVE AGENTS SHIPPED TO IRAQ ILLEGALLY BY COLONEL KYLE
OF MAGNUM INC. OF DENVER ARMS COMPANY A CIA FRONT. BOUGHT BY DUTCHMAN “and if you proceed further, you’ll add this:” CALLED LEMIERS LATER MURDERED IN COVER-UP ALSO INVOLVING BRITISH MI5. ALSO KILLED WERE BRITISH ARMS DEALER CARTER PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR HOPKINS AND ITALIAN CAPTAIN OF FLAVIO
“There’s more,” Ogden said, “but I think you’ve seen enough to get the point.”
“And the newspaper knows about this code?” the D-G asked.
“That’s right. We have the same kind of arrangement I established with Chester Peacock—you arrest me, and they’ll publish the telephone code.”
“Jesus Christ,” Stringer groaned.
“I should warn you,” Ogden added, “this isn’t the only true story hidden in my memoirs. My friends and I know quite a number of dirty little anecdotes about the Intelligence world, going back forty years. Every instalment of the memoirs contains at least one such tale. If you send us down, the whole lot will come out.”
Stringer and the D-G were lost for words. Ogden carefully studied the expressions on their faces: he was looking forward to describing them to his friends later on.
“Mr Stompfweiner will be delighted to reveal the code,” Ogden said gleefully. “Think of what a circulation-booster it will make! The whole world will re-read the memoirs, and—”
“I take your point, Ogden,” the D-G said coldly. “It—it seems you’ve beaten us.”
“Comprehensively,” Ogden agreed. “In fact, I’d call it a first-class thrashing.”
“Have we your assurance that you won’t ever release this code?”
Ogden shook his head.
“Certainly not. Oh, I’ll probably keep it to myself, if you people don’t bother me again. And I also think you owe Carter’s family some form of compensation for his death—”
“What?” Stringer said. “Now, don’t push your luck, Ogden—”
“Don’t push yours,” Ogden retorted. “Now, if that’s all, gentlemen, I think I’ll be going home. With my friends, of course.”
The D-G glanced at Stringer and shrugged.
“What can we do?” he said helplessly.
Stringer peered malevolently at Ogden, and said, “You’re an old cunt, Ogden. You know that? An old cunt.”
Ogden took the bubble-gum out of his mouth and dropped it in the ashtray. Then he smiled sweetly at Stringer.
“I’d take that as an insult if it came from anyone else,” he said. “From you, Slinker, I take it as a huge compliment.”
Chapter Forty-four
“MORE BUBBLY, ANYONE?” Ogden inquired.
“Yes, please,” Beauchamp said.
“Encore,” the Laird agreed.
Ogden filled their glasses with champagne, then raised his own.
“Who shall we toast this time?”
“The new Director-General,” the Vicar suggested.
“All right,” Ogden said. “To the new D-G, whoever he may be.”
“To the new D-G,” they said.
“Let’s hope he fares better than the last one,” Beauchamp added.
“How do you know the old one’s been sacked?” Sybil asked.
The Vicar pointed at a newspaper on the table.
“According to The Times, he’s just been offered a seat on the board of some merchant bank. It’s not the most prestigious post in the world, but I expect it was the best the Government could get him at such short notice.”
“We should send him our commiserations,” the Laird said, “and suggest he write his memoirs.”
They all had a good laugh at this, and then Ogden said, “What about dear old Swinger? No directorship for him, I suspect.”
“Maybe they’ll keep him,” Beauchamp said. “If the old D-G has taken full responsibility, Stringer might get away with a demotion.”
“Not now,” the Vicar grinned. “The book’s put paid to that.”
He picked up a copy of The Ogden Papers, which had just been published, and pointed to the dedication, which read: “To my old friend Geoff Stringer without whose kindness and encouragement this story might never have been told.”
“Cruel,” the Laird chuckled. “Too cruel.”
“I almost feel sorry for the chap,” Ogden said. “He tried so hard, didn’t he?”
“Serves him right,” the Vicar said firmly. “Football supporters deserve everything they get.”
Ogden gazed deeply into an imaginary crystal ball.
“Mr Slinger,” he intoned, “I see dark clouds on your horizon. You will meet a tall, bald stranger, and then you will go on a long journey…to the back of the dole queue.”
“Speaking of long journeys,” the Laird said, “Jeremy still hasn’t told us why he went back to Holland to see Mrs Lemiers a second time.”
“Yes,” the Vicar agreed. “Why’d you do that, Jeremy? We’d written Lemiers off our list of suspects by then. What changed your mind?”
Beauchamp shifted uncomfortably.
“Er, nothing,” he murmured.
“Nothing?” the Laird repeated. “In that case, why—?”
“I think I know,” Ogden said, grinning evilly. “Jeremy has a new pal, don’t you, Jeremy?”
“Yes,” Beauchamp said hoarsely. “That sort of thing.”
“Who’d have thought it?” the Vicar said. “Beauchamp, you old dog!”
“At your age,” Sybil frowned. “I think it’s pathetic.”
“Oh really,” Beauchamp complained. “Look, we’re just friends, all right? She’s a very nice lady, and, and—”
“Say no more,” Ogden smirked. “Just be thankful that she won’t have to visit you in some God-awful prison.”
“Hear, hear,” the Laird said. “That was a close-run thing.”
“Closer than you realise,” Ogden said.
“Not really,” the Vicar said. “We always knew that the hidden stories would save our necks.”
“True,” Ogden nodded. “But it nearly went terribly wrong. Do you recall that I said I’d forgotten to do something in the States? Well, I finally remembered it when I was in that police cell. In all the fuss, I forgot to give Stompfweiner the telephone code.”
The others stared at Ogden in horror.
“You…forgot…”
“’Fraid so,” Ogden said. “And when Slinger produced that letter for Chester Peacock, we really were up the proverbial shit creek. It’s a good thing the D-G didn’t call my bluff, isn’t it? I’m sure I’d have hated the taste of prison food.”
All the characters and events portrayed in this work are fictitious.
PAPER CHASE
A Felony & Mayhem mystery
PUBLISHING HISTORY
First U.K. print edition (Victor Gollancz): 1989
First U.S. print edition (St. Martin’s): 1990
Felony & Mayhem print edition: 2008
Felony & Mayhem digital edition: 2014
Copyright © 1989 by Bob Cook
All rights reserved
E-book ISBN: 978-1-63194-034-7
You are reading a book in the Felony & Mayhem “Espionage” category, which features spies and conspiracies from World War I to the present. If you enjoy this book, you may well like other “Espionage” titles from Felony & Mayhem Press.
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