The Executioners

by Philip McCutchan

  Shard had to be found. No-one could contemplate the assassination of top Russian ministers on French soil. As ever, the missiles stood poised. They were everywhere on the west’s perimeter. It was believed from Intelligence sources that upwards of 500 SS-20 medium-range missiles carrying up to 1500 warheads were deployed against Western Europe. The risk was immense. In the trigger-happy eighties anything could happen at any moment. Thank God, many people were saying fervently, the Americans were not involved on this occasion. The Minister of State for Public Security said as much to Hedge, on the telephone.

  “But they are!” Hedge shot back at him.

  “Non, non, non —”

  “I say again, M’sieur, they are. You forget that wretched hippie commune in the Ardèche. One should never trust the Americans too far, though I’m not to be quoted on that.” Confound the French, Hedge thought with suppressed fury, if a thing’s far enough away they sweep it under the carpet of shrugged shoulders. “The man Tex is —”

  “Ah, so. Yes. But he is, I think, of little account —”

  “You don’t mean to say you’re not looking for him any more, do you?” Hedge asked belligerently.

  “Non, non, this I do not mean, M’sieur.” The voice was as angry as his own; the cut call clicked in his ear like a French oath. Hedge turned on Roberts-White, venting his frustration. “Really, you’d have imagined one of those passers by would have known Shard was an Englishman at least.”

  This non sequitur didn’t seem worth any response from Roberts-White, who was up to his ears in work and worry. Threats to men in positions of high authority were nothing new, in a personal sense one grew blasé, checked the underside of one’s car and hoped for the best. You took other sensible precautions, naturally: you avoided Jewish restaurants when the PLO was feeling aggrieved, Middle Eastern ones when the Israelis were on the rampage, and so on. As for the IRA they could be, and were, everywhere. Always. But this time there was an extra edge. Communist Alliance Transatlantic and the Avengers of St Petersburg looked set for a private war and all manner of nastiness could happen and a whole lot of people could get hurt — and the forthcoming conference was, Roberts-White knew well, vital. It was a pity the FO had sent Hedge; the Embassy’s own security men were on the ball and simply didn’t need him. And Hedge wasn’t easily set aside; he infiltrated himself into everything with a determination not to be disregarded. However, the security machine was moving nicely into gear despite Hedge. Paris had been toothcombed by Counter-Espionage and by the stalwarts of the Police Judicaire aided by the gendarmerie made available to the police by the Minister of Defence. Paris was swarming with plain clothes men, extra guards were being placed on the Elysée Palace, the National Assembly, the Palais de Justice, the Hotel de Ville, the Invalides … even the Louvre since for a lark the terrorists often liked to slash the odd masterpiece. That, and a lot else. The river wasn’t being neglected; frogmen had been down, and would keep on going down, to inspect the great stone supports of the bridges and ensure that no infernal devices were attached to blow as the brass swept across the Seine. Full diving teams, too, had been alerted — army, navy, police. They would go into action at a moment’s notice. The Eiffel Tower swarmed with security men with stripped-down automatic rifles concealed about their persons. The Eiffel Tower was a fine vantage point, and not only that, it would make a spectacular set for a bomb. Far-fetched maybe, but the French were an imaginative race whatever else they might or might not be.

  *

  Shard had answered nothing; the Cossack type — his name had emerged as Nicholas, no surname uttered — seemed unsure of what to do about Shard’s silence. He struck Shard as a decent old man, far from being a killer at least in a personal sense. He would cheerfully do what he regarded as his duty, i.e. to assassinate top Communists, but he might well draw the line at slaughtering a defenceless captive, a prisoner-of-war in a sense. The Russians, both Moscow and St Petersburg variety, were bloody enough, and merciless. But old Nicholas had been a long, long time away from Russia — he had been brought up in the milder French environment almost from babyhood, as he had said.

  That counted. Nicholas was no bastard. Mikhail was a different kettle of fish. Life had made him so. His face was vicious and his temper vile. Mikhail would stop at nothing, he would show no tender regard for anyone’s skin. He stormed about the room and even little fat Annie began to look scared.

  He stopped in front of Shard. He had a knife in his hand and this he placed against Shard’s throat.

  “Talk,” he said.

  “Sorry. What’s the point, anyway? Any efficient terrorist knows the general drill security-wise, has a pretty good idea what he’s up against.”

  “He does not always know the programme. Where the target will be at any given time.”

  Shard grinned into Mikhail’s face. “You have a point. I take it you don’t know the relevant movements. I have to say that I don’t either.”

  “You are a liar.”

  “Right, so I’m a liar if you say so. But there’s another thing efficient terrorists know: route and timing changes are endemic to state visits and conferences when terrorism’s in the air, right?”

  Mikhail scowled, his face ugly.

  Shard said, “They don’t always confide in me, not right away. Decisions are made and then I get my orders. I’m only a cog in the wheel. Currently I’m a few hours out of date.”

  Mikhail made a threatening movement with the knife. Old man Nicholas grabbed for his arm, pulled it back from Shard’s throat. “Be careful, Mikhail. What he says is true. Remember there are more important things for him … please do not forget that, Mikhail.”

  Mikhail turned his head and met the old Russian’s eye. His mouth thinned to a narrow line, but after a few moments he nodded and relaxed. He turned on his heel, called to little fat Annie, and left the room with her. Nicholas with the Kalashnikov was to be the sentry. Shard ran his mind over what had been said. The inference was that these people had some use for him and he had to live, had to be uninjured so as to perform. There, his mind hesitated. He could see, thus far, no way in which he could be used. They’d said he wasn’t to be a hostage; that might or might not be the truth — but he could in fact see no likely use for a hostage. Detective Chief Superintendents might not be two a penny, but they didn’t have much rank against the pinnacles of the western and eastern Establishments and no-one was going to remit security on their behalf. Shard was expendable and knew it. So too would Nicholas, but not perhaps Mikhail, who had been conditioned to accept the police, Russian variety, as the arbiters of all fate. To Mikhail, Shard might well be the equivalent of the Head of the KGB. If so, a valuable catch.

  Nicholas remained silent, just sitting and holding the Kalashnikov. Over his head a clock ticked away on the wall. Time … how long before the non-persons and the Avengers of St Petersburg went into the final act?

  Shard’s thoughts roved on. Asipov, the defected gas expert, dead in London. What had been his idea — had he intended to warn the British of what was planned? No: why should he do that? He was himself one of the Avengers — possibly because of what the Soviets had done to his unacknowledged son. Could be that Asipov had just meant to get out before the balloon went up. Then perhaps he had ideas of taking up his fatherhood somewhere in the west, together perhaps with Ernestine Kolnisenko. Anyway, he was dead now. He could scarcely affect current issues any more.

  But there was still a query and an important one. Shard, the non-answerer of questions, asked another of his own — Nicholas hadn’t seemed to object earlier. It was a weird situation, Shard thought, for a captive …

  He said, “You told me Asipov was one of your Avengers, also that the Russians wanted him back because he was party to your plans.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then surely it follows from that, Moscow had got wind of them too, even that Asipov had been made to talk?”

  Nicholas nodded and said, “Yes.”

  “Then why haven’t the
y reacted? And what’s the point of your going on with all this?”

  Nicholas smiled, almost with a benevolent look. Shard reflected that the old man had probably been much more ferocious in his youth and young manhood. He said, “The Soviet leadership never reacts overtly. It is of course true that they will take extra precautions now. But always leaders expect to be targets for dissidents. It is nothing new. It makes our task the harder, that is all.”

  “It doesn’t affect your confidence?”

  “No. Now I shall tell you something else, and perhaps this something will tell you that it would be wise to talk to us.” The old man leaned forward, still clutching the Kalashnikov. “It is this. It is surmise but may well become fact. The Soviet delegation will try to turn what we do away from themselves and towards the western leaders —”

  “How, for God’s sake?”

  Again Nicholas smiled. “It can be done. A Russian insistence on those changes in the programme that you spoke of. There will be times when the eastern leaders will be together in one place, the western leaders together somewhere else. We shall try to act against the Soviet persons only, not the others. Moscow will know this. If they engineer a last-minute change of programme so that where the east is supposed to be, the west in fact is … I think you follow, yes?”

  Shard began to feel something like Nemesis closing in. He said, “Yes, I follow all right.”

  “Then perhaps you will help us, in the British interest, the safety indeed of all the western leaders.”

  That was when Shard really began to sweat.

  *

  Down south in Bourg St Andeal the police had had no luck with the man Frigger, one of the sidekicks to Tex. He had been broken all right, but he didn’t know anything helpful that would lead to Tex. Frigger was thick, as thick as his metal ball with its spikes. Just a strong-arm man. He was duly charged with murder of police officers and the report went through to the Police Judicaire in Paris. Paris always thought it knew best and a high-ranking officer was sent south to the Ardèche to put the pressure on Frigger. The result was the same. Nothing. The police chief in Bourg St Andéol was in no way displeased to be able to say I told you so and the high-ranker helicoptered back north in a huff.

  Meanwhile Tex was in Paris.

  The ten-gallon hat had gone, so had all the gear familiar to the hippies. God had come down to earth in a different sense. Divinity was out. Tex was mortal and wore a light-coloured suit, very smart, that he had bought off the peg in the outskirts of a provincial town whilst en route for Paris. He had travelled north as far as this town in a vegetable lorry, a stowaway beneath the cauliflowers, disembarking when the driver stopped to go into a pissoir. Better clad, he had caught a train into Paris and had then walked unremarked to an address in a side street between the Rue du Faubourg St Antoine and the Boulevard Voltaire, where he was welcomed by friends. The friends, two men and a woman, were British with communist links, fellow members in fact of CAT.

  While Tex awaited onward transport, a scratch meal was provided, coffee and sandwiches, and money was handed to Tex, a large sum in French francs for expenses and handouts.

  “Thanks,” Tex said, drinking coffee. He added witheringly, “Bloody hippies.”

  “Why?”

  “Buggered off.”

  “Yes, we heard.” The speaker coughed a lungful of phlegm into a handkerchief, then drew on his Gauloise. “Can’t say I blame ’em … sodding police.”

  “Oppressors of the working class,” the woman put in violently.

  “Sure. Same in the States, same everywhere.”

  “In Russia it’s different.”

  “Sure, sure.”

  There was a silence; Tex was resting and just for now there was no special hurry. Let the panic die down, was Tex’s philosophy. Suddenly he laughed. “Won’t find those fucking UFOs now, not without me.”

  He was joined in his laughter. Stupid sods, fancy believing … but they were mostly from middle class homes, the hippies. Workers had too much to do to keep alive, no time to be hippies — broadly, that was. Tex had specialised in hippies with resources. The more middle class they were, the more gullible, so were their parents who couldn’t abide to think of little Johnny without cash in his pocket, no matter what. The UFO idea had been a good one. The woman asked if the scattering of the hippies had mucked up Tex’s schedule.

  “Jesus,” Tex said in brief dismissal. Evidently it hadn’t. The woman chewed on a ham sandwich, teeth working as though biting angrily into privilege. When she spoke she had a Glasgow accent, but she wasn’t risking it through the ham. She knew more or less the role of the hippies: cover. So long as the cover hadn’t been blown, by which she meant so long as Tex himself was in the clear and unsuspected, all was well. No worries. Tex would cope with what he’d come to do. The enemy would be ironed out. That included a man named Hedge. On Tex’s arrival, the friends had passed on a report about Hedge, who was said to be in evidence around the British Embassy. “D’you know the man?” the woman had enquired. “Because we don’t.” Tex said yes, he knew of him. A puffed-up little bastard, could be mistaken for a faggot but wasn’t. High up in the British Foreign Office, a big shot. Tex reckoned something could have leaked and that could have accounted for the presence of Hedge in Paris. While eating he did some thinking and as he finished his coffee he reached a decision. He had a job for the Paris cell.

  He said, “This Hedge. Plump, not exactly fat. Short. City type clothes — suit, polished shoes, always wears a hat — Derby.”

  “Bowler.”

  “Okay, bowler. I’ve seen photographs, ones he won’t know were ever taken. Jesus, you can’t miss him.”

  “So?”

  “So get him,” Tex said briefly. “Fast. Alive. When you’ve done that take him to House Four, right?”

  It was arranged. Later that day a Citroen pulled up outside and a man got out, banged the door, didn’t lock it, but lifted a hand to scratch his face when he was in line with the window. A very obvious scratch, which was interpreted to Tex by the Glasgow woman: the awaited transport. Tex took his leave, got into the car, and drove off.

  He headed south again, but not far out of Paris. Paris was the hub of future events and time was ticking past.

  *

  In London the Foreign Secretary was being given a last-minute briefing, a stiffener really, along with his Minister of State and Permanent Under-Secretary, for the Paris meeting. This was something like the fourth session, since the Prime Minister wished to be very, very sure. Nothing, but nothing, was to be given away. Not an inch. The Prime Minister was Mrs Heffer, no connexion with the Cambridge booksellers. (Mr Heffer was an architect but no longer had designs on Mrs Heffer; he had been divorced, cast aside in the hot pursuit of power.) Margaret Thatcher had set a precedent: Mrs Heffer had determined to follow it. Women Prime Ministers were tougher than men. She was always adamant and knew she was more than a match for the Russians, but her Foreign Secretary was sometimes hesitant and a man, which was why the PM had suddenly decided to go herself. More as an overseer than a participant. Like Hedge, the Foreign Secretary’s job was in danger. He was being watched.

  Mrs Heffer sat at the head of the table in Number Ten, firm, unyielding.

  “You must counter every Russian move, Roly,” she said.

  “But Prime Minister, the diplomatic —”

  “Every Russian move, Roly.”

  “Yes, Prime Minister. But if I may say so, some resilience often brings —”

  “No, Roly.”

  “But if there’s an advantage to be —”

  “Ah, an advantage, yes.” The PM straightened her back, hefting her breasts up above the table, almost pointing them at the Foreign Secretary, like guns. “But it really has to be an advantage. That’s up to you. Under certain circumstances I can of course concede a little.”

  The Foreign Secretary wiped his brow. Number Ten could be a hot place. “Yes, quite, Prime Minister. Quite. I know your views, of course, and they�
��ll be adhered to I promise you. But you see, the French —”

  “I’m not concerned with the French,” the PM said. “I don’t believe they’ll give as much trouble as you’ve been suggesting. They dislike opposing me over EEC matters and this will be the same. I shall be behind you, Roly. I shall insist on certain clauses being inserted into any agreement.”

  “Yes, quite. Yes, indeed. But there’s this threat that’s been reported from —”

  “That’s quite a different matter,” Mrs Heffer said briskly, “and it doesn’t frighten me.”

  “Of course not, Prime Minister, but do you really think it wise to go to Paris in the changed circumstances?”

  The Prime Minister gave a snort and rose from the table. The briefing was at an end. The Foreign Secretary rose like an obedient jack-in-the-box and shuffled his papers back into his brief-case. He looked tired, sad and very worried. It had been a long climb to the Foreign Office by way of Planning and Local Government, Transport, Social Services and the Home Office. And he didn’t want to be blown up.