Dead Secret

by Alan Williams

  ‘To really understand, you have to go back to the period — get the real flavour and tone of political thinking of the thirties and forties. Pretty muddled, pretty messy — and sometimes pretty daft. You see, with most of the intelligentsia still convinced that Soviet Russia was a haven over the hill, and with the Red Army seen as the great heroes of the day, the Communist menace was, if anything, even more potent than it is today. It was left to a handful of people at the top of the British and American Establishments to realize that Bolshevism had always been the true enemy. It was all right, of course, when the Russians and Germans were allies, and kissing each other in public — then the menace was clear enough, even to the stupidest soul. But after June 1941, when we woke up to find the Russian bear was on our side, a lot of people had to do a lot of rethinking.

  ‘As early as 1943 it was becoming fairly obvious that the Nazis were beaten. It was just a matter of time. And time was the crucial factor. For every week, every day, the Russians were getting closer. And the Russians, remember — in most people’s minds — were allowed to do no harm. Like the Blacks today, they were blessed with some sublime innocence, the mysterious gift of truth and all-seeing wisdom — as well as every other kind of poppycock and applecrap that you can name.

  ‘And the only tiling that could hold the Russians up, while the Western Allies captured as much of Europe as was left to them, was the mighty German Army. And without oil we know that the German Army would have been finished by the summer of 1944. A few months, even weeks later the Russians would have been eating chips in Boulogne. At least ABCO did their bit there.’

  Hawn said: ‘Are you repeating what the Big Boys told you to say back there in Mexico? Or do you really believe all this?’

  ‘That’s something I need not answer. Instead, let me ask you a question. How many hours did it take you to fly today from Berlin — from a hundred miles behind the Russian lines to London? Just over two hours — barely enough for a couple of drinks, a frozen lunch, and coffee. But that time and distance could have been a great deal shorter. It might not have existed at all. Just remember that.’

  ‘Who killed Norman French?’ said Hawn.

  ‘I honestly don’t know. But I can make a few intelligent guesses — which is no more than the police have been able to do. Young French had made himself very unpopular with a lot of people. Mostly in America, and mostly in ABCO. But ABCO has a long arm, and an even longer memory. Normally they go after the big fish, not worms. Perhaps it was just unfortunate for French that he’d already got himself involved with your investigations.’

  ‘Robak?’

  ‘Robak — Schlobak.’ Shanklin heaved his shoulders in a dismissive sigh; then got up, crossed the room and picked up the shotgun from where he had placed it against the wall. Deftly, in a single movement, he swung it up until it pointed at the wall above Hawn’s head. Then, very deliberately, he cracked the gun open, and lowering it a few inches, squinted down each barrel. ‘Don Robak was in Brazil, I understand. You’ve got contacts in the police. You can check.’

  He blew hard, first down one barrel, then the other. ‘Or it could have been any number of stockholders whom young Norman French had torn off, even ruined. There we are — clean as a whistle!’ He replaced the gun and came back to his chair. He was smiling at them both indulgently: ‘Anything else either of you want to know?’

  ‘Who is Hanak?’ Hawn said.

  ‘Ah yes. Hanak. Rare bird. One in a million. Not out of the usual Secret Service mould — all Burton suits and rounds of bitter in the local in Horseferry Road. Oh no, Hanak’s special. It was something of a privilege having him sent in to work with you. I hear he hurt his thumb, by the way?’

  ‘Who the hell is he?’ said Hawn.

  ‘One of our brighter lads attached to the Ministry of Defence, as it is euphemistically put. Jewish, of course. Rather a nice irony there, I think — one that would appeal to your newshound’s sense of the absurd. Only I forget, of course — you won’t be able to write it, will you?’

  ‘And who’s going to stop me?’

  ‘You will. Or rather, your self-restraint. Your wisdom and better judgement.’

  ‘Inspired by your honeyed words, Shanklin? By your sweet reason, combined with your appreciation of recent history? Perhaps that’s why you and Robak’s boys never tried to buy us off? No, Anna and I are satisfied to leave the bribing — what I call petty ex’s — to that evil genius, Pol. God let him rot in an East German jail.’

  Shanklin nodded. ‘That was the one mistake the East Germans made — they underrated Pol. They didn’t trust him either, of course, or they wouldn’t have sent a platoon of troops to the lake this morning. But they didn’t expect him and his mercenary thugs to start a shootout and kill their star witness.’

  Hawn stared at him. ‘How the hell do you know about it so quickly?’

  ‘Little machine called the telephone. Plus a telex to their Security in Alexanderplatz, East Berlin.’

  ‘You and ABCO and Pol had the East Germans eating out of your hand. How come? They’re nobody’s saints — and they’re certainly not blind kittens, either.’

  ‘Menes par le bout du nez,’ Shanklin said, with a rarefied accent: “‘Led by the nose”, as your chum Pol would have said.’

  ‘Used!’ Anna broke in bitterly. ‘That’s what we were — used by you and Robak and Pol — even by British Intelligence. And what the hell was in it for them?’

  Hawn gave a savage laugh. ‘That would be a good story — connivance between MI6 and the boys over the Wall. I wouldn’t like to jump to any false conclusions there.’ Shanklin blew his nose. ‘I can’t answer every little question, you know. It all boils down really to a matter of priorities and common interests. When our interests and those of the East Germans happen to coincide, hoopla! — you almost hear wedding bells in the air. But seriously. You have to look at it not only from the East German point of view, but also from Whitehall’s. The Communist Krauts are busy doing a deal with ABCO — ergo, ABCO suddenly has a lot of lead to swing behind the Iron Curtain. The East Germans are very anxious that their deal goes through. And — through a certain Colonel Kardich, of their Security Police — they are persuaded to go along with ABCO’s plan, whatever that is.

  ‘And Kardich appears to have agreed, but on two conditions. Firstly — you and your girlfriend cannot be allowed to run around loose on their patch. Secondly, when the crunch comes with a meeting between you and Rice at the lake, the Commies want nothing officially to do with it. They insist that at this point the responsibility passes either to ABCO directly, or to the British or Americans.’ He waved his hand. ‘Happens all the time, though it never gets reported. You’d be surprised how much co-operation we get from the other side, and vice versa.’

  ‘But I bet there was another reason,’ said Anna. ‘Our spooks in Whitehall felt it necessary to take a hand, not just to protect those so-called vital national interests that are tied up with ABCO, but because there are too many bigwigs still loose round Whitehall, not to mention the bloody Lords, who had a hand in the whole conspiracy from the beginning! And of course, the British Establishment can’t afford to start having all its dirty linen — as well as its starched shirt fronts — washed in front of the whole world.’

  ‘Bravo!’ Shanklin had sat up and was patting his hands together. ‘In a nutshell, my dear! Couldn’t have put it better myself — though I don’t think I could have matched all your social venom.’

  Hawn said: ‘It still doesn’t explain why the East Germans went so far as to put up their leading scientist as target practice for Pol and his friends. Particularly when you say that they didn’t trust the man.’

  ‘I said they underrated him. Like ABCO, they wanted the ends tied up. Rice had spoken his piece a long time ago, and they’d already retrieved their box of documents from the lake. Of course, there’s no danger of the East Germans using them now — although they might come in useful, if ABCO ever wanted to become difficult. And no doubt fut
ure Communist historians will find them an entertaining source.’

  ‘But why the hell were we two billed so big in all of this — right until the end of the last reel, when Pol decided to change the script?’

  ‘You were the bait, my dear fellow. Both of you. As I have explained, it was either a question of disposing of you — with all the untidy consequences — or of leaving you to follow the spur right to the dead end. The dead secret, if you like. Somebody had to do it, sooner or later. You were the chosen pair — or rather, you chose yourselves, and received our reluctant blessing.’

  ‘And supposing I write it up as a story?’

  ‘Based on whose evidence? Mine? Pol’s? Colonel Kardich’s, perhaps? Even young Hanak’s?’

  ‘There’s that old dictum of the Duke of Wellington — “Publish and be damned”.’

  ‘You even try to publish, and you’ll be damned. I mean that, Hawn. And you should believe me. Do me at least that courtesy. I’m the one who’s acted as your advocate — spoke up for you both, pressed for the soft line — and, fortunately for you, won. I may not go on winning. So don’t let me down. I don’t give a bugger about you or this girl here — but I do care about what happens to ABCO and this country. You cross me and you make an enemy for life.’

  There was a long pause. Hawn finished his Scotch. ‘So where do we go from here?’

  ‘Home. And don’t try to be a hero. If there’s anyone I dislike more than a fool, it’s a failed hero. What would you hope to achieve? What newspaper do you think would even print your story? Mönch is dead, French is dead, Salak is dead, Pol is hors de combat, and I shall deny everything.’ He stood up.

  ‘So, if you’re ready, my man will drive you back to London. You should be in time to have a good dinner at Odins. I’ll ring and have them keep their best table for you — they know me pretty well. And don’t worry about the bill.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Hawn. ‘We’d prefer somewhere a little quieter.’

  Anna propped up the steel stepladder, climbed to the top and reached for the file Na to Ne. She went back to her desk and turned the pages to ‘National Enterprise Board’: ‘British Leyland — subsidiaries — Export Figures, June-October’. She took notes in her neat, sloping hand until a couple of minutes to five, when she returned the file and fetched her coat.

  A quarter of a mile away, in the British Museum Reading Room, Hawn finished reading a lengthy thesis entitled ‘The Religious and Socio-Economic Realities of the Renaissance Dynasty. Part I: Influence of the Medicis’.

  He had parked his car on a yellow line in Coptic Street, and experienced a moment’s exhilaration when he found that he had not collected a ticket.

  He picked up Anna on a corner of Aldwych. Neither of them saw a very ordinary Ford keeping its distance behind them down the Strand. And when they reached the quiet of Pembridge Villas they took no notice of the car that parked a hundred yards ahead of them, under the trees.

  ***

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  ALSO BY ALAN WILLIAMS

  THE CHARLES POL SERIES

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  Shah-Mak

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  Copyright © Alan Williams, 1980.

  Alan Williams has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events, other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales are purely coincidental.

  eBook ISBN: 9781913518585