Special Deception

by Special Deception (retail) (epub)

  Presumably, he’d thought, they knew what they were doing. The SBS were famed, of course, for their obsession with secrecy and anonymity. Anyway he had a rather sore head this morning and he wasn’t straining it any more than necessary.

  He’d bought a bottle of malt whiskey and a box of Havanas. If they wanted him to look like a tourist, he’d told Bob, OK, he‘d look like a fucking tourist. In fact when they’d first come through to the departure lounge he’d shied away from the Duty-Free emporium, protesting that he didn’t need it, but Bob had pointed out that damn few yachtsmen would go on holiday without their iron rations. So now Charlie swung his plastic bag with the rest of them. He and Bob were clearly tourists — open-neck shirts, anoraks; reminding himself occasionally, Christopher Sharp… He could see Smiley Tait’s striped sweater in the straggle ahead of them, and Pete Denham a few paces ahead of Smiley — flowered shirt, blue anorak over a shoulder.

  Bob muttered, ‘That pair could be Special Branch.’

  A dozen yards ahead, a man and a woman behind a little counter were watching the passing flow. Pete Denham, level with them at this moment, was chatting up a red-headed girl. Jeans, skin-tight, and a well-filled T-shirt… Charlie met the official’s thoughtful stare: his companion was studying Bob. Or seemed to be. Charlie said, ‘She reckons you’re pure Arab. Or impure.’

  ‘You’re full of shit, Charlie.’

  ‘What makes the world go round, old chum.’

  *

  Paul Salvesen — tall, grey hair receding — invited his guests, ‘Who’d like to open the batting?’

  This was Salvesen’s house, Queen Anne and elegant, in a Chelsea backwater where on a Sunday forenoon nothing much was stirring, except Salvesen himself and a manservant who’d opened the door to John Bremner and to Hugh Vestey, who as head of the Middle East department at the Foreign and Commonwealth Office was Salvesen’s junior. Vestey was a counsellor; Salvesen, a deputy under-secretary, had overall charge of several such departments.

  No sight or sound of Mrs Salvesen. She’d be asleep or in the tub, or breakfasting in bed, Bremner guessed. Guessing was a large part of his job: at least, of the way he did his job. He nodded to Salvesen, who’d now asked him to ‘open the batting’ by giving them his department’s view of the report from Damascus.

  Bremner had the Middle East desk in SIS. He’d been woken by the duty officer’s call just after 2 a.m. and he hadn’t had more than an hour’s sleep since then. Salvesen’s strong coffee had been doing him good, though; he put his cup down now, with his thoughts more or less collected.

  ‘I suppose to start with we have to decide — or try to — whether it’s genuine or whether it’s disinformation. Basically the suggestion seems to be that there’s an anti-Assad faction who may have got Stillgoe into their keeping in order to precipitate a political crisis. Maybe timed for Assad’s absence in Moscow. And the Al-Jubrans seem to be involved in this. Well, they’re from the north end of the country, that fertile stretch northwest of Aleppo/Halab. Definitely prosperous, influential, and were becoming more so — up to about the time Assad took over. Assad’s an Alawi — as you know, of course, I’m only trying to muster what I know. Or rather what I don’t know, is what it comes down to… The Al-Jubran clan may well have resented the flood of Alawis into the administration and senior army jobs and so forth. On the other hand, with this boy at the Interior Minister’s right hand — and there’s an uncle who’s a prominent Ba’athist, big noise in National Progressive Front — well, if they’re lining up against the boss, it’s news to me.’

  ‘Could be quite a recent development, John.’

  Vestey had the look of a younger Edward Heath, Bremner had often thought. He tried not to let this prejudice him against the man. Vestey adding now, ‘Since Assad seems to be off at something of a tangent — his peace policy in Lebannon for instance?’

  ‘I’m only saying that we have no evidence to support it. Bremner shrugged. ‘OK, this neither proves nor disproves anything. Since Syrian independence forty years ago there’ve been more plots and counter-plots than any of us have had hot breakfasts. As you know, of course… But looking at it from the other angle — might it be an effort to disinform — we could start by asking ourselves what they’d hope to gain by having us believe it. And then — well, whether young Hafiz Al-Jubran’s affair with Miss Thornton might have been promoted right from the scratch as part of a deception operation. Mightn’t be such a far-fetched theory, you know — in his position, and with the mix of political and religious differences, you could say he was sticking his neck out, rather… But as to what might have been the purpose behind it — I don’t mean only Miss Thornton’s romance, I mean the yarn about Stillgoe if it has been planted on us as disinformation — unless to have us rush in with protests, denunciation which they could then demonstrate to be a load of rubbish derived from our own resident Mata Hari?’

  Salvesen put his cup down. ‘Nuisance value only. Calumnies come readily enough without elaborate contrivances to support them.’ He glanced at Bremner. ‘Plenty in the pot still, make a long arm… Any other ideas?’

  ‘Yes. With a stretch of imagination as well as arm — what if they hoped we might try to extract our man physically, by special-force insertion or with the help of agents already there? Could be aimed at bringing such agents to the surface — if there were any… We would like to have Stillgoe out, certainly — and they must know it. Which in fact makes this whole thing smell, just a little.’ He left his coffee black, but spooned sugar into it. ‘They’ve had him for nearly four months now. And they kidnapped him in circumstances which make it highly probable they knew he was doing a job for us as well as for his newspaper. He’d met his informant — a Syrian, military person — earlier that day, in East Beirut, and the Shi’ite extremists snatched him on his way to the airport. With rather important information in his head. Quite likely they’d had the Syrian under observation, observed the meeting, then when he made his dash for the airport they’d know he’d got what he was after. What we were after. Then they’d have sweated what they needed to know out of their own guy, and they’ve still got Stillgoe as a very effective bait — which is how I’d guess they’re now using him.’

  Bremner paused, sipping coffee, then continued, ‘Taking it a bit farther, I’d suggest this scenario’s supported by (1) location, I mean access from the coast, and (2) the Syrian lass having shown our girl the brother’s map. Sounds as if she did it quite cleverly, fooling Miss Thornton into believing she wasn’t supposed to be letting her see it.’

  Vestey nodded. ‘Almost an invitation.’

  ‘Which we wouldn’t dream of accepting.’ Salvesen was lighting a cigarette. ‘They surely can’t believe we’d be such idiots… Do you have such an agent or agents in Syria — as a matter of interest only?’

  ‘No.’ Bremner shrugged. ‘Effectively, no. But if they thought we had, or that the Yanks had — and they might be somewhat paranoid on this subject, in view of recent events — not to mention their own inbuilt duplicity… Bear in mind that if this is a disinformation exercise, nothing that Syrian girl said can be believed. It doesn’t have to be a splinter-group setting us up, for instance, Assad himself could be calling the shots — even from Moscow… On which hypothesis, now you’ve got me going on this line of thought I’d suggest they might believe they had a chance of luring us in. And wouldn’t they be right, truly? If we were convinced the report was genuine?’

  ‘If—’ Vestey qualified — ‘if it was thought to be both practicable and worth it on balance against the political repercussions.’

  ‘Well, I wonder.’ Salvesen’s eyes were narrowed into the smoke of his cigarette. ‘If it was so very desirable to have him out — and if such an operation could be carried out quietly and neatly, without any side-effects or other awkwardness — well, any Syrian protest would involve admitting they’d had him there to start with — as much an act of terrorism as was the kidnapping itself. And with this Hindawi trial hanging over
them already — well…’

  Vestey and Bremner began to speak simultaneously. Both stopped. Bremner offered, ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Well, suppose it’s a set-up. He’s not there, but they think they can make us believe he is and chance our arm — what, drop in a team of SAS? Well, the Syrians could have let’s say two of their five commando regiments deployed around the target area — at which they’ve so carefully pointed us — and they could drop one of their parachute regiments behind our boys as soon as they’d moved inland. Eh? It could be a trap that even the SAS would have problems getting out of.’ He nodded at Salvesen. ‘Counter the stuff that’s arising from the Hindawi trial, make us seem to be into the business of terrorism?’

  Salvesen agreed. ‘Distinctly embarrassing.’

  ‘Actually—’ Bremner put in — ‘and purely en passant, I’d say the SAS might walk out of it all right. The Syrian army did lose the Golan Heights, you know. Which I’ve heard it suggested a troop of Girl Guides could hold.’ He shrugged. ‘But as you observed just now, we wouldn’t fall for it, would we. In the cold light of reason, I’m sure you’re right, we wouldn’t be that bloody daft.’

  ‘Let’s hope we wouldn’t.’

  ‘It really is quite viable, as a guess at what they might be aiming for’ Bremner suggested, ‘I think you’d both agree, from your own appreciation of the current moves and tendencies in the area — notably the Soviet efforts to rebuild their influence. And maybe short-circuit this new pragmatism for which Assad is being credited? I’m saying that although it’s nothing but guesswork, the guesses are by no means extravagant — if the Damascus leak was deliberate, this could well be the explanation, or near enough to it.’

  ‘We’ve one thing established anyway.’ Salvesen took a quick glance at his watch. ‘Even if it’s true that Stillgoe’s in Syria, we’d advise against any military reaction.’

  Vestey murmured, ‘Oh, absolutely.‘

  ‘So let’s consider what diplomatic response might best suit the circumstances. If we decide to accept that the report may be factual, say, but irrespective of whether or not it was fed to us deliberately. I’m talking now about the alternatives of approaches either to some quarter in Damascus or directly to Assad in Moscow.’ Salvesen told Vestey, ‘I’m seeing the PUS this evening, by the way, and I’d like to have something on paper for him. If you could see to that, Hugh? The main points, and our conclusions… So let’s start with Damascus. The ambassador suggested approaching either the Deputy Foreign Minister or one of the Vice-Presidents. From your own knowledge of those individuals, what would your recommendation be?’

  *

  Anne Swale hadn’t been able to get to sleep until after four, and she’d slept right through to — she reached to turn the alarm clock so she could see its face — after ten, for God‘s sake…

  Charlie was still in her mind: as he had been before she’d dropped off, and maybe in her dreams, she suspected. Stumbling through to the bathroom: her head buzzing as if it had bees in it…

  The Sunday Telegraph was on the mat outside the door. She brought it in, glancing at the front-page stories, thinking Damn Charlie!

  By the time she’d bathed and had breakfast in her dressing-gown it was about eleven. She left the newspaper in a crumpled heap and went into the bedroom to get dressed: then a walk, she thought, fresh air… Charlie was either sick and hallucinating, his rain all whisky fumes so that he was confusing daydreams and the real world, or he was so desperate to impress her that he’s invented all that rigmarole about the SBS.

  She knew in her heart that he had not. Charlie was no inventor.

  Her mind wouldn’t leave it alone. She didn’t understand it, and it maddened her. She’d been trying to make herself think about other things, but it kept coming back, tormenting her. Hence the nuit blanche.

  She walked out to her kitchen, re-arranged a few objects, came back again. Pausing at the music centre, then deciding that noise was the last thing she wanted. She was looking at the telephone a minute later, thinking Call him? See if he’s here still, whether he remembers any of that stuff?

  She shook her head. Whatever her reason for calling him, he’d take it as a sign of interest in him, a desire for contact.

  She flopped down, leafed through the colour supplement, read part of an article in which she hadn’t the least interest. A new thought was taking root, expanding while she read the same paragraph three times and still didn’t get the point. She threw the magazine down, pushed herself out of the chair and found her old address book in a drawer under the telephone. Rifling through to the letter ‘P’. She put the book down, and dialled.

  Janet Prentice answered. Anne said, ‘Janet, this is Anne Swale.’

  ‘Anne…’ A second’s pause: then, ‘Anne! How are you? What a lovely surprise! And where—’

  ‘I’m in London. I’ve got a puzzle — bit of a worry, actually… Could I possibly speak to— ’

  ‘Bruce, you want. Yes, you’re in luck, he’s here, for once… Anne dear, it’s lovely to hear from you, and I would so like to see you again… Oh, here he is, hold on…’

  Bruce Prentice asked, ‘Can this truly be the beautiful Anne Swale?’

  ‘Colonel Bruce, I am so sorry—’

  ‘That’s the worst possible start, my dear. You must not be sorry, because I’m tickled pink to hear from you. Janet just yelled that you have something on your mind though, so let’s get to it and see if I can help.’

  ‘You’re very kind.’

  He was. He was a brilliant soldier, so Charlie and Charlie’s former friends had maintained, and he was also — like his wife — outgoing, wholehearted.

  ‘A question, actually, Colonel Bruce… Have you or the Regiment been contacted recently — or at all — by the Royal Marines wanting to know something about Charlie?’

  A silence. Then: ‘As the question strikes me here and now, the answer would have to be a straight “no”. Frankly, I can’t imagine in what circumstances it might occur.’

  ‘He’s going on some operation with the Special Boat Squadron. They need him for his Arabic, apparently. As you know, he’s fluent — and he’s kept it up, he uses it in his business. The SBS thing is somewhere in the Middle East, he said he thought Syria but wasn’t certain, they hadn’t told him. But apparently they’d checked him out with you — I mean with the Regiment — before they approached him.’

  ‘He told you this himself?’

  ‘Yes, last night. He came here, to tell me he’s leaving today — just turned up at my door, begging me to let him in. I suppose you’ll have heard that we’re separated. I’m getting a divorce — I’ve my own flat here, and a job, but he’s tried several times to talk me into trying to start again — which I will not do — and last night he was trying the same thing. His line was that if the SBS would take him on, having checked with you — which they told him they’d done, he said — then why shouldn’t I give him another chance?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t presume to advise you on the personal issue, Anne. But the SBS bit — I can fairly definitely assure you it’s not true. For one thing, if we had been approached by the Royals on that subject, I’m afraid it’d have been a thumbs-down… I’m sure you’d understand this, Anne.’

  ‘It’s why I’m telling you about it. It’s so extraordinary. I’ve been awake all night, and—’

  ‘He’s made it up, that’s all. Can’t say I’d blame him for wanting to get back into your good graces, but—’

  ‘The answer can’t be as simple as that either, Colonel Bruce. Charlie’s a drunk, but he’s no liar. He never was, I’d stake my life on it. I haven’t any doubt at all that he believed he was telling me the truth — which means he has been recruited for whatever this is. He’d been in the Welsh mountains all week, he said, training with this SBS team!’

  ‘Any names, or other detail we could check on?’

  ‘Only that he thought they were going into Syria. No, no names… He said maybe Libya or the Yemen but he g
uessed Syria.’ He made a point about it being only his guess, so he wasn’t giving out any secrets, he didn’t know where they were taking him.’

  ‘Did he say where in Wales, so we might check whether—’

  ‘No, I’m sorry—’

  ‘Anything else, then?’

  ‘They needed him for his Arabic, since they’re short of Arabic-speakers. And they’d checked with you. And — oh the man who came to his flat to recruit him was a captain in the Royal Marines and also the team leader. During the week in Wales he’d had nothing to drink, he said, but he was full of whisky last night — I said something about it, and his excuse was it was his last night in civilisation, there wouldn’t be any where he was going.’

  Colonel Prentice said, ‘Excessive indulgence in the hard stuff can change a person, Anne. Can you be so certain he wasn’t fabricating?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I can. But I just thought — another thing… When he said there‘d be no drink out there he said that “old Bob” had made that a condition of his going with them. He hadn’t mentioned that name before, but I took it for granted he was talking about the same man, the recruiter.’

  ‘An SBS captain with first name “Bob”. That might be a start, there can’t be many captains in that little outfit. Of course, if there’s any truth in this—’

  ‘Colonel Bruce, please believe me — he was not making it up.’

  ‘All right. All right, Anne. You know the guy, after all. As a matter of fact my own somewhat different view of him leads towards the same conclusion, when I think back a bit. Certainly I’d say so of the man as he was. If the drinking hasn’t changed him—’

  ‘It has, but not that basically.’

  ‘Very well, then.’ A pause… ‘First, I’ll have to check with some of our own people. No — on second thoughts, some other poor fish can handle that. I’ll check with the Royals. Meanwhile, if you have a minute to spare, and could bear to do it—’