by Paul Starkey
“Frightened you?”
Mellanby nodded. “My grandfather had dementia, though of course it wasn’t always diagnosed as such at the time. He’d been a big part of my life whilst my Father was away at sea, and to see him laid low in that way.” He shook his head. “I’m not a man who is easily scared, John. You probably remember that much about me. I’ve never worried for my own mortality. Even watching Bunty waste away before my eyes, I wasn’t afraid for me, only for her. But the thought of losing my intellect, my mind, that scares me.” That’s enough, he thought. Either he accepts that or he doesn’t, but saying more won’t help.
It was odd, but part of him wanted John to see through the lie, to laugh and tell him he was full of shit. The John Tyrell he remembered, the John Tyrell he had dined with six months ago, would have seen right through the deception. It was a curious dichotomy. If Tyrell picked him up on the lie he was still the man Mellanby needed to send on this operation, but likely he wouldn’t go, would probably throw him out in fact, but if he didn’t detect the lie then whilst he was more likely to take the job, his presence was conversely perhaps not as necessary.
“I haven’t lost my intellect,” said Tyrell. “Haven’t lost my mind.”
“Of course not,” said Sir George. Disappointed, yet relieved.
Another quiet descended upon them. This time Mellanby decided to interject. “Must be strange, coming back to this house when you don’t remember it.”
Tyrell nodded. Now, finally, he had picked up his own drink. He took two long, audible slurps before he spoke. “Yes and no. It’s like someone broke into my flat, stole a load of my stuff, then put it in someone else’s house. Things I’ve owned for years sitting side by side with the possessions of a stranger. Take the bookcase,” he said, gesturing gently with his teacup. “I removed all the books I didn’t remember buying.”
Mellanby’s brow knitted into a frown. “Is it wise to try and ignore those facets of your life you don’t remember?”
He almost expected Tyrell to flare up at that, the reports had indicated some anger management issues, but instead he just shrank back into himself and took another drink.
“I haven’t thrown them out,” he said at last. “They’re in a pile by my bed; I’m slowly working my way through them.” He smiled. “Don’t worry, the doctors made me aware that hiding from the…” he paused. “Reality of my situation wouldn’t help, would probably make things worse.”
Mellanby nodded. “That’s good to hear, John,” he said. Silently though he wondered about the blank spaces on the walls where nails and hooks were all that remained of the pictures and photos that’d once hung there. He remembered photo frames sitting on top of the TV as well. They were gone too.
“You must have read the reports, the psyche evaluations; doctors’ letters…the people at Devonshire Hall were very thorough.”
Devonshire Hall. A country house hidden somewhere north of Carlisle. It was a sanatorium come mental institute. The place broken members of Her Majesty’s specialised services went; usually to be made whole again, but often to be housed securely, sometimes for the rest of their lives. MI5, MI6, SAS, GCHQ…Devonshire Hall didn’t discriminate. The place had some of the finest medical professionals in the country working within its walls, not to mention some of the most up to date and lethal security outside of them. There were nuclear power stations and Royal residencies that weren’t as secure.
“I’ve read the reports,” said Mellanby. There was little point lying. In signing off Tyrell’s retirement on ill health grounds Sir George had had to read them, all of them, although if he was honest he skipped to the final conclusions of most. He had enough documents to read that had bearing on national security to bother with those about a broken, useless agent. “They’re dry though, they don’t go into minutiae. I still don’t know, for instance, at what point your memories actually stop? What’s the last thing you do remember?”
Tyrell looked at him. He was trying to glare but it had all the power of a toddler contemplating a tantrum. Still it became clear that John Tyrell had had enough about talking about his illness. “Ibex,” he said softly. “You mentioned Ibex.”
“That I did.”
Tyrell shook his head. “Can’t be. We retired Ibex more than three…” he quickly caught himself. “More than twenty years ago.”
“I know,” said Sir George. “However it seems Ibex decided to come out of retirement some years ago.” He allowed himself a sly smile. “Although he wasn’t working for us this time.”
Tyrell scowled. “The KGB again?”
Mellanby let the omission slide. The KGB had ceased to exist even before Tyrell’s illness, replaced by the SVR.
“No, not the Russians.” From the inside pocket of his jacket he removed a single sheet of typed vellum. “This email came in to your MI5 account four weeks ago. Luckily we’ve had the account closely monitored, even though you’d retired.”
“What a comforting thought,” said Tyrell. “Although given how many emails I get to the Yahoo address Charlie set up for me, I dread to think what my official email account’s like.”
“About a hundred a day.” Mellanby chuckled. “Mine’s much, much worse. Talking of which…” He took out his Blackberry. “Just be a second,” he said, never lifting his eyes from the screen. There’d been a half dozen incoming emails since the last time he checked, but he ignored them. Instead he opened the draft folder and sent an email he’d written earlier. Barely a dozen seconds later, and he noted with satisfaction when his phone lost its signal. “All done.” He slid the Blackberry away.
Tyrell was shaking his head once more. “Amazing…” he said wistfully.
“Annoying actually, but I know what you mean. Anyway, the email. Luckily I instituted a double run through, so someone was checking your emails twice, this was missed on the first run, but thankfully the young lady checking the second time picked up that it probably wasn’t as innocuous as it sounded.”
He held the sheet out towards Tyrell. The other man looked at it for a few seconds, then hesitantly reached to take it, as if it was a curse of some kind. Perhaps, Mellanby thought, he’s smarter than I think?
He unfolded the paper, scanned it once, then read it aloud. This seemed superfluous given the Sir George already knew the contents. He supposed it was a trick, a memory aid suggested by the doctors.
“Hi, hope you’re doing well, just a quick note to say hello, been a while I know. Are you still working for Carvers? We definitely need to meet for a chat soon. The kids are doing great, off to Washington soon. You still like Chinese? What’s Kate doing now? Weather’s been lousy lately, think I really need a holiday but organising one is hard. Sally fancies going to Egypt, I don’t want to. Why don’t you come visit next time you’re in town? We’re in most nights these days, we’re both too knackered after work to go out. The bus from town drops near the end of our street, you won’t get cold walking to our place. Anyway shouldn’t prattle on too much, hope to hear from you soon.
Regards
Jim Reilly”
Tyrell finished reading, but continued to stare at the sheet of paper. A caveman confronted by a transistor, Mellanby thought. I’d probably better fill in the blanks for…
It was almost supernatural. Like a switch had been flicked inside his head, eyes that had seemed almost somnambulant came into sharp, alert focus. John Tyrell smiled. Then he laughed.
“Are you all right?”
Tyrell looked up. There was genuine joy, genuine clarity in his eyes for perhaps the first time since Mellanby had walked through the front door. “I get it,” he said waving the sheet of paper in the air. “Pen, I need a pen…” After several seconds scrabbling around on the coffee table he found one. Picking up a magazine he rested the sheet of paper against it then, hunched over like a medieval monk, he began underscoring words, eyes narrowed with concentration, tongue flicking in and out of his mouth like a snake’s. Mellanby noted he was holding the pen tight, but his hand sti
ll retained a perpetual shudder. Whether it was his condition, or excitement he wasn’t sure. Eventually he finished, waving the sheet in the air with a flourish, the grin of a schoolboy plastered suddenly on his face. “Done it.”
Mellanby couldn’t help smiling. “So what does it say?”
Tyrell returned his gaze to the sheet.
“Working for Chinese now, need to come in from the cold.” He handed the sheet over to Mellanby after he’d finished. Sir George took it and checked where Tyrell had underlined words exactly as the cryptography people had.
“Hi, hope you’re doing well, just a quick note to say hello, been a while I know. Are you still working for Carvers? We definitely need to meet for a chat soon. The kids are doing great, off to Washington soon. You still like Chinese? What’s Kate doing now? Weather’s been lousy lately, think I really need a holiday but organising one is hard. Sally fancies going to Egypt, I don’t want to. Why don’t you come visit next time you’re in town? We’re in most nights these days, we’re both too knackered after work to go out. The bus from town drops near the end of our street, you won’t get cold walking to our place. Anyway shouldn’t prattle on too much, hope to hear from you soon.
Regards
Jim Reilly”
“I remember this!” Tyrell said whilst Mellanby continued to stare. “It’s a simple code, a fall-back we put in place with Ibex in case all other modes of communication were compromised. Of course it was designed for a letter or a postcard, but an email works just as well. You ignore the first sentence, that’s there to throw anyone else off if they try and decipher it. After that it’s the fourth word, then the eighth word after that, then the sixteenth. Then you go back to four, then eight, and so on. You ignore the last sentence too.”
Mellanby looked up. “Simple stuff if you know what to look for, our crypto boys took ages on it. Luckily someone recognised the name as one of Ibex’s covers.”
“The name is part of the message too,” said Tyrell, still looking pleased with himself. Although from Mellanby’s perspective he looked increasingly like a child who’d got the answer to a puzzle right rather than a man utilising his extensive skills and experience. “Regards means he’ll wait two weeks for a response. Sincerely was one week, and best wishes…” He closed his eyes, put a hand to his temple. “Seventy two hours!” he said opening his eyes wide. A magician revealing his tricks.
“We figured that out too, and that Jim Reilly means he isn’t under duress.”
Tyrell nodded. “He’d have written James if he was.” He suddenly looked tired, as if the last few minute’s excitement had taken it out of him. He sagged back in his seat. “The Chinese? Ibex is working for the Chinese?”
Mellanby folded the paper and returned it to his inside pocket. “New world order, old chap. An awful lot of things have changed in the last few years, and yet bizarrely a lot have stayed the same. The Russians and the Chinese were always our principle opponents, though obviously back during the Cold War the Russians were in the top flight, along with us and the Americans. The Chinese were strictly division two, capable of the odd win but on the whole no major threat. The situation’s reversed somewhat now. The US and China have the high spots. Us and the Russians were relegated a division. Although we’re both loathe to admit it, even as we try to get promoted again. I hate to admit it but the Russians look like having more chance of doing that than us, even with that recent hoo-ha in Washington.”
“So what’s Ibex been doing for the Chinese?”
Mellanby shrugged. “Same thing he did for the Russians, for us. He’s still with the FAS, back working at Grosvenor Square. He’s been there nine months; before that he was in Nigeria.”
Tyrell snorted. “He must have loved that. No wonder he jumped the fence again.”
“Quite.”
Tyrell closed his eyes. For a moment Sir George wondered if he was actually falling sleep, but then he opened them again, though he looked suddenly weary. In just a few minutes it seemed that dark circles had appeared under each eye. “So what is he offering us? The same deal as before?”
Mellanby shook his head. “No. This is a one-time deal. I can’t tell you anything about the information he wants to trade, but it’s of high importance, and getting it would neuter multiple threats to our country.” He paid special attention to the word our.
“What does he want in return?”
“Freedom. The freedom afforded by a large amount of cash of course, not to mention a new identity.” He checked his watch. “He’s due to arrive at a specific location in just under four hours. Once he drops off the radar it will be, at most, twenty four hours before his disappearance is noted, by either the Americans or his Chinese handlers. In that time we are going to move him to a secure safe house. The debrief will be short and intense, and by no later than midday tomorrow we are to deliver him to a location in Birmingham and set him free with his money and his new identity. After that he’s on his own.”
“And if you haven’t got what you need by then?”
“Tough,” said Sir George. “And that’s why I need you.” He smiled. “You were no doubt wondering why I’d come all the way out here.”
Tyrell said nothing, and so Sir George carried on. “You’re familiar with Ibex, and if we’re to get the best out of the information he possesses then I need someone who knows him as part of the debrief.”
“I was only the junior agent on the case.”
Mellanby nodded. “The only two members of the service who had any dealings with Ibex were you, and Sam Harris. Now I know Sam was the senior agent; that he had the most contact, but unfortunately Sam retired, and then Sam died. So you see, John. You’re the only option I have.”
“If I say yes.”
“If you say yes.”
For almost a minute he just sat there. “Why should I?” he said at last.
Sir George shrugged. “For your country, for me.” He smiled. “Better yet, for yourself. Remember those reports? They made it clear that you were not suited to the rigours of day to day operations, even in an office bound capacity. However they suggested occasional consultancy work might be good for you. The odd day here or there.”
Tyrell frowned. “I don’t remember the doctors saying that. They talked about me getting a part time job maybe, but nothing about still working for the service.” An almost pitiful look entered his eyes. “The reports really said that?”
“Yes,” said Sir George—when lying it was always best to be succinct.
“And if I say no? What can I expect, babysitters?”
“You know me too well, John. Yes, babysitters. There are two agents parked behind your house. Your landline was disconnected when I came in, and just now I sent the signal to jam all mobile phone traffic. A trifle annoying for a couple of your neighbours but I’m sure they’ll get over it.”
“I don’t have a mobile,” said Tyrell absently.
Mellanby carried on as if he hadn’t heard him. “If you say no, those two agents will move in, just for the next twenty four hours. Given the precarious nature of Ibex’s situation I’m sure you understand. Of course you won’t be able to go out, but as I say it would just be for a day.”
“I don’t have anywhere to go anyway.”
“I’m hoping it won’t be necessary, John. I’m hoping you’ll choose to help us, to help your Country.”
“My country?” the bitterness was back. “This is the same country that fired me the moment I wasn’t useful?”
Mellanby narrowed his eyes. “You knew the risks, John. You knew the rules just like anyone else. We’re all expendable…” he paused. “Even me,” he added. “I’m truly sorry for what happened to you, but you were, are, my friend, and I’m not about to let you wallow in self-pity.” He stood, walking over to the bookcase he slid one volume out at random. “I’m offering you a chance to stay in the game, John.” He smiled coldly. “You’ll run out of books to read eventually.” He slid the book back into its space with a dull thud, then,
hands clasped behind his back, he looked down at Tyrell.
The other man was wincing, and Mellanby took a moment to realise that it was because he was looking up into sunlight. “I…I need to…to think about it.”
Time to be magnanimous. “I understand. As I said time is a factor, however…” he smiled. “Likely you could do with a shower and a change of clothes, even if you aren’t going to join me. Why not take half an hour, I can wait that long. Take a shower, have a shave, and if you want to, pack an overnight bag. If you choose to come with me, great. If you don’t…” he shrugged. “Well you’ve tidied yourself up a bit and wasted a few minutes packing. No harm no foul as our cousins are wont to say.”
For a moment he wondered if he’d pushed too hard, not cajoled enough. Tyrell was staring at his sweatshirt, running a hand over a stubbled cheek. He looked guilty, slightly embarrassed. But then he stood up sharply and grinned. “Guess a shower can’t hurt.”
For an instant John Tyrell was back. But then he shuffled towards the door like an old man, and yet again Sir George wondered; Was it an acceptable risk to involve him? “One more thing, John. I’m sure you have firearms stashed around the place, best not pack one, eh?”
Tyrell turned in the open doorway. “I’m sure I do, luckily I can’t remember where I damn well hid them.” He half turned, then paused. “You asked,” he said looking back over his shoulder. “Asked about the last thing I remember.”
“You don’t have to tell me. It isn’t important.”
Tyrell smiled sadly. “No it isn’t important. It’s egg. The last thing I remember is the smell of egg.”
And with that he was gone, leaving Sir George to ponder in his wake.
Chapter five
The shower helped, banishing some, if not all, of the tiredness that seemed ever present. He had to admit as well, the very thought of getting back to the job he’d loved so much was helping pump adrenalin through his veins.
He knew it wouldn’t last though, knew from bitter experience that the times when he felt most alive, most “normal”, were the most dangerous of all, and that the lows that followed the highs could be almost unbearable. His old Sunday school teacher had been right all those years ago, pride really did come before a fall.