Special Deception

by Special Deception (retail) (epub)

  ‘Of course, whatever—’

  ‘Second thoughts again — no. I’ll do this, I’ll start with it. Give me his telephone number — d’you have it, I mean Charlie’s? I’ll take this head-on — if he’s still there, of course…’

  *

  There was no answer from the number she’d given him. Just past noon, now. Prentice hung up, then telephoned his adjutant.

  ‘Jimmy. Have we had, or do you know of anyone else having had, any enquiry from the Royal Marines about your old chum Charlie Swale?’

  ‘From the Marines… No, Colonel. Nor have I heard of anyone else being asked — good lord, he’s not trying to join the Royal Marines, is he?’

  ‘Not exactly. But look, ask around, will you? Find out — confidentially — whether anyone’s had any such approach. Anything from the Royals, or anything from any other quarter about Swale. If you get any positive result, call me back at once adjutant all right?’

  The third number he wanted had to be looked up in a classified directory which he kept under lock and key, but within a few minutes he was talking to the Officer Commanding Special Boat Squadron.

  ‘Charles, this is Bruce Prentice.’

  ‘Well, hello… I just got in, this minute. What can I do for you, Bruce?’

  ‘Answer a couple of questions. No, three questions, I think… first adjutant, have you ever heard of a former officer of my regiment by name of Charlie Swale?’

  ‘No, I have not, Next question?’

  ‘Do you have any special deployment to the Middle East — probably Syria but could be elsewhere in that area, and by “special” I mean the kind of antics in which you specialise — but something that’s afoot now, today?’

  ‘In a word — no. But any more questions of that kind, Bruce, I’d suggest you waited half an hour so we could both get to another line.’

  ‘May do that later.’ The secure line, he’d meant; it would have involved both men going to their respective headquarters. ‘Or someone else might. Maybe not, but the feeling gets stronger with every “no” you give me… Will you be at home later in the day, Charles?’

  ‘From now until about two thirty, then I’ll be back here maybe seven or eight. Of course if it’s something urgent I could stick around.’

  ‘Well, let’s try the last question. Do you have a captain in your outfit whose first name is Bob? Robert, maybe, but called Bob?’

  ‘Let me think…’

  Five seconds was all he needed.

  ‘No. There’s your third negative, Bruce. Now how’s the pricking of your thumbs?’

  Very prickly indeed… Look, if I need to bother you again, it’ll be before two thirty, well before. Otherwise forget it. Meanwhile, many thanks.’

  He rang off, then tried Swale’s number again; and again, no answer. He looked up another one in the classified directory. Two rings, a receiver was lifted and a male voice confirmed the number. Prentice asked, ‘Duty officer, is that?’

  ‘Yes, who’s calling?’

  ‘My name’s Prentice. Colonel Bruce Prentice. I’d like to be put in touch with Mr John Bremner, if that’s possible.’

  The young executive who’d taken over the daytime duty from Edward Harrington reached for a directory, began leafing through it one-handed. ‘If you’d hold on just a moment, Colonel…’ Prentice waited, guessing he was being checked on, the SIS duty officer making sure that John Bremner wouldn’t be averse to talking to him. The check was fast: the young voice asked, ‘Is there any urgency, sir?’ Prentice noticed the step-up, that ‘sir’… ‘I ask because he’s at a meeting — in London but not in this building. Would you like to give me a number where he could all you back?’

  ‘Could he get to a protected line, wherever he is?’

  ‘Hang on, sir, I’ll see.’ Another check: and again, a quick one. ‘Yes. He could.’

  ‘Then give me fifteen minutes to get to one myself.’ He gave him the secure line number at the regimental HQ, and checked the time. ‘I’ll be there, hoping to hear from him, by — say twelve forty.’

  *

  The balance of opinion here, John Bremner thought as he listened to the two Foreign Office men chewing over the pros and cons of diplomatic moves in Damascus and/or Moscow, was that an approach might best be made to the Syrian head of state, at present a guest of the Soviets. If this decision was endorsed by the PUS, whom Salvesen would be seeing later in the day, the ambassador in Moscow would be briefed to implement it.

  Or to try to implement it. Bremner had certain misgivings on that score; if the circumstances and company had been different he’d have been ready to place bets by now. But he also knew that these FCO people might well, in their wisdom and entirely proper caution, decide on the alternative of recommending no action at all adjutant euphemistically, to ‘adopt a wait-and-see policy’.

  But Moscow would be the best hope, in the present view, on the principle of going straight to the top and also because if the Damascus Report was to be accepted as genuine, one might also accept that Stillgoe was being held in Syria without the President’s knowledge; so manoeuvres in Damascus might be complicated by not knowing who was or was not in the conspiracy.

  Hugh Vestey was saying, ‘He has his Foreigh Affairs minister with him, unfortunately. What’s his name — Farouk al-Sharah. Could be an obstruction adjutant unless we decided to trust him. But I’d still prefer—’

  ‘No argument.‘ Salvesen turned his game on Bremner. ‘You’ve been sparing with your comments, John.’

  ‘Hardly my field, the heights of diplomacy. I’d agree that if there’s to be any approach, Al-Assad’s the guy to nobble. But that’s hardly my problem, of course. Also, I do feel pretty damn sure it’s a con-trick. The more I think about it, the more it smells. And I’d chance my arm a bit beyond that point too. If our ambassador is able to get to Assad, I’ll eat these words; but my guess is Moscow could well be pulling the strings off-stage, and if so they’ll make sure nobody from the West gets within a mile of him.’

  Salvesen frowned. ‘May we hear your reasoning?’

  ‘For what it’s worth.’ Bremner nodded. ‘As far as thinking the report’s been planted on us — fairly subtly, less obvious than actually panting the news across a steaming pillow — well, we’ve looked at it from several angles, but to my mind the only approach that tells us anything worthwhile is the question of what the Syrians might stand to gain if it was straight up and they do have Stillgoe there, or by conning us. We concluded that if it’s the latter there could be mileage in it for them if we swallowed the hook and rushed in where angels fear to tread — which they could be justified in hoping for — but that there’s no dividend for them as far as we can work it out — if it’s genuine. So, as one’s bound to accept — unless one’s KGB or some such adjutant that two plus two equals four whereas a zero amounts to zilch, I see this as disinformation’

  ‘Reluctantly—’ Vestey nodded — ‘I believe I’d back that horse.’

  Bremner looked back at Salvesen. ‘The political background — breaking your own recent analysis down into my own kind of simplistics — seems to me to support the likelihood of Soviet involvement. As you said, they’re working hard to regain their lost influence in the Middle Fast. After all, what have they got as of now — Assad, who seems to be turning soft on them, and Gaddafi who’s as much of a pain in the arse to them as he is to the rest of us. But the Soviet talks in Helsinki with the Israelis, for instance: propitiate the Jews with a few promises — and as a sweetener let Scharansky’s relations out under the wire — simultaneously reassuring the Arabs by announcing that nothing was achieved… Then the other moves you mentioned — attempts to dissuade Assad from his Paris visit, and pressure on him to make this Moscow trip… Well, if they could pull this one off — con us into some crazy rescue attempt?’

  Salvesen stirred: his movement suggested a readiness to bring this meeting to an end… ‘With all that in mind — as hypothesis — we have to consider the likely or probable effects o
f an approach to Al-Assad. Whether we should react even to that extent. After all, if were assuming the report is fictional, the obvious course would be to ignore it. What d’you say, Hugh? Sit tight—’

  A knock at the door had interrupted him. ‘Yes?’

  The manservant came in, a folded slip of paper in his hand. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, sir. Telephone message for Mr Bremner, from his duty officer, who said it was very urgent…’

  Bremner read the note. He told his host as the door shut again, ‘Someone’s anxious that I should call him back. On a protected line, though.’

  ‘In my study.‘ Salvesen pushed his chair back. ‘I’ll show you.’

  He rejoined his Foreign Office colleague a minute later, commenting, as he sat down and offered Vestey a cigarette, ‘You‘ve had dealings with Bremner before, of course.’

  Vestey nodded, using his lighter. ‘Only quite recently, I can’t say I know him well. He transferred to our friends from Box Five — well, as you’d know.’

  ‘Rather given to — er — flights of fancy, would you say?’

  ‘Well — he does-have a considerable reputation, for the accuracy of those — those flights. One or two notable bull’s-eyes in fact. And one heard that this was the basis of the JIC sub-committee’s decision to recommend his being moved over, they felt that our friends needed his particular talents.’

  ‘Well, that’s — interesting.’ Salvesen checked the time. ‘Very… Nevertheless, Hugh, I’m still inclined to the view that our policy for the time being should be to hold our horses, let his people ferret for a lead to Stillgoe’s present whereabouts. Eh?’

  ‘He could be dead…’

  ‘He could, yes. Or he could be in Syria. Meanwhile if there were some opportunity for an exchange of views with Assad in Moscow, preferably away from the microphones, I’d see no reason not to take advantage of it. Simply to inform him that such a report seems to have been pushed our way, that we have no strong belief in it, but wanted to bring it to his attention for as much or as little as it may worth. Not revealing our source — since that might blow back on us, later if not right away… Would you agree?’

  Vestey said yes, he would. If the Al-Jubrans were stirring up trouble for the present administration, wisdom suggested it might be better not to alienate them at this early stage. He and Salvesen talked on, desultorily, for several minutes. On this and related subjects; effectively the meeting was over now, but it might have seemed ill-mannered for Vestey to have left before Bremner finished his telephoning.

  When he came back, Salvesen asked him, ‘All well?’

  ‘Well — no…’ going to his own chair, resting his hands on the back of it, leaning slightly forward… ‘No, I‘d say — unwell…’ His expression — surprise, even alarm in it — increased the MI6 man’s resemblance to Charles Dance, a likeness Salvesen had noticed earlier. Bremner told them, ‘You may find this difficult to believe. I do… That was Colonel Bruce Prentice of 22 SAS Regiment — calling with a bizarre account of — well, it centres on Syria, of all places. Yes, nice timing, eh? It seems a former SAS officer has left England — probably, he was leaving today and he does seem to have left — in company with people whom he believes to be from Special Boat Squadron, Royal Marines. They recruited him — an SBS captain with the first name “Bob” did — because he’s fluent in Arabic, and the operation they’re engaged in is to the Middle East, this guy thought most likely Syria. He told his ex-wife all this, last night, and she telephoned Prentice — her husband’s former commanding officer — less than an hour ago. Since which time Prentice had done some checking and discovered (a) there’s no current SBS deployment in the Middle East, (b) the CO of the Special Boat Squadron says he has no captain in it with the name of “Bob”, and (c) according to the ex-SAS officer, name of Swale, the SBS had checked on him at SAS headquarters before they recruited him, but in fact the SBS have never heard of him.’

  Bremner pulled the chair out, and sat down. ‘So now where are we?’

  *

  About halfway, Charlie reckoned, adjusting his watch to Turkish time, with the airliner somewhere over Jugoslavia. He glanced at the man beside him.

  ‘Bob, tell me this. This fortnight’s package deal your tame travel agent’s fixed up for us. If we get on with the job, in and out smartly and no snags, how do we spend the rest of the time?’

  ‘Acquiring a tan, Charlie.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Cruise. Up into Turkish waters. What we’ve paid for. We just relax and enjoy it. Turkish wine’s cheap and good, and Scotch is five quid a bottle, you’ll have no worries at all.’

  ‘I see. Our chauffeur-driven bateau stooges around and picks us up again, does it? And what about the extra hand we hope we’ll have with us by then?’

  ‘He’ll go straight on his way to London. No problem, it’s all organized.’

  Charlie frowned. ‘You say “no problem”, but if you happen to get greased, who knows what to do?’

  ‘The gulet’s crew. They’ll be in radio touch with the other party to the rendezvous… Want another of those, Charlie?’

  Brandy and ginger. Like pushing a dummy into a fractious baby’s mouth.

  *

  To Anne, they were a phalanx of unfamiliar faces — plus Bruce Prentice’s once-familiar and still well-remembered features, and the girl who’d greeted her and was back in the room now — nine of them including herself, all settling into chairs around the table after a series of introductions, murmurs of ‘most kind of you to have come, Mrs Swale’…

  Bruce Prentice had flown up from Hereford by helicopter and called for her at her flat in an official car, whisked her to this building off Whitehall, into this high-ceilinged room in which she was now trying to fit names to faces. The names she’d heard and registered included Bremner, Salvesen — tall, greying hair, seemingly chairman of the meeting — and Vestey — pale face, almost a rhyme, ‘pasty Vestey’ as an aide-memoire — and a Royal Marine major whom Prentice called Charles, who was balding, with an amiable expression. Prentice had arranged for him to be here, and he’d come by helicopter too, from Poole. There were also two dark-suited younger men, with the hushed manner of church ushers, and this girl — quite nice-looking — who’d introduced herself as Verity MacDonald and was now beside her, operating a tape-recorder.

  Bruce Prentice was on her other side. And the one on his feet, since she’d put names to all the other except the Marine called ‘Charles’, had to be Bremner. He had a look of Charles Dance, she thought, tuning in to the sound of her own name, hearing ‘— Mrs Swale, who’s nobly come along to tell us at first hand exactly what her husband said when he called at her flat last night…’

  Bremner had ignored the speed limit and taken liberties with traffic lights all the way from Chelsea to Century House, where he’d drafted a summary of facts and theories so Verity could word-process it when she dashed in, she and his two executive assistants plus some others who were in the office now, having been recalled from their weekends at home. He’d put them all on to research tasks — airline flights and passenger lists, and checking that Swale wasn’t in his flat, and that his brother — name and telephone number obtained from Anne Swale — hadn’t any idea where he might be, and alerting Special Branch, who’d put a watch on air and sea ports and had a man on his way to Cyprus now. There’d also been some calls to be made to various places in the Middle East and to the sovereign bases in Cyprus, and while all this had been happening Bremner had crammed down two ham sandwiches. Then they’d packed into his car and he’d driven fast down to Whitehall, beating Salvesen and Vestey to it by a whisker.

  The two would have been enjoying a decent lunch, he guessed.

  He finished, ‘After that, Mrs Swale, we won’t detain you. We’re grateful for your cooperation. For having come forward in the first place, particularly.’ He heard Salvesen’s bleat of ‘Hear, hear,’ then looked over Anne’s head at Bruce Prentice as the SAS colonel made a move to intervene.

/>   ‘Colonel Prentice?’

  ‘I’d just like to put a few points on record, save Mrs Swale having to explain the background. If I may?’

  Salvesen said, ‘By all means. If Mrs Swale—’

  She nodded, then sat with her hands folded in her lap, not looking at any of them while Prentice explained that she and her husband were separated, that his visit the night before had been unexpected and uninvited; then that his service with the SAS had included deployments in the Dhofar and in the Gulf States, as a result of which he spoke fluent Arabic. His service there and elsewhere had matched up to the highest standards of the SAS; his leaving the Regiment and then the Army had been brought about by personal problems which had led to a degree of alcoholism, contributing to the break-down of his marriage.

  ‘I think that gives you as much of the background as you’d need.’ He looked down at Anne: ‘All right?’

  She smiled her thanks; appreciating that his little speech had been mainly for her benefit, breaking the ice for her. She launched herself straight into an account of Charlie’s call at the flat, everything he’d told her, as well as she could recall it. It seemed so little, too little to justify this Sunday assembly of high-powered people; although at one stage she became aware of having created a stir when she’d quoted Charlie as having told her that the operation involved ‘rescuing some guy’ from some place in the Middle East. At that point Bremner and the tall man, Salvesen — and then Vestey too, late on it but doing a double-take — looked sharply at Colonel Prentice, who spread his hands as if in apology. She’d faltered, then forged on again, dredging up every scrap that she could remember.

  Finally there wasn’t any more. She said, ‘That’s about it. Not very much, I’m afraid.’ Verity stopped the tape, and Bremner said, ‘Your contribution has been invaluable, Mrs Swale… I wonder — if we could steal another minute of your time — whether there may be any questions, while we have you with us…’