The Exit Club: Book 4: Conspirators

by Shaun Clarke

  ‘Well, I certainly learnt that in the SAS. It’s probably all I’m good for.’

  ‘For me, that’s enough.’ She stubbed her cigarette out. ‘Anyway, I don’t think you got it from the SAS. I think you got it from your parents and your children. Even though you and your first wife were divorced, you remained a loyal, supportive father. Then, of course, there was Ann Lim and…’ She hesitated, embarrassed. ‘You were a good husband and father then as well, until… Jesus, I’m sorry!’

  Marty reached across the table to take hold of her hand and squeeze it reassuringly. ‘It’s okay, Diane. It happened years ago. It’s not something I’ll ever forget, but I’ve learned to live with it. These things happen in life.’

  ‘Me and my big mouth.’

  ‘It doesn’t help to pretend it didn’t happen and skirt around the subject. They were killed in a car crash. I know that. Idon’t pretend otherwise. It doesn’t hurt any more.’

  But it did, of course. It still hurt like hell. He still had bad dreams about it and felt gutted because of it. He would never forget it.

  ‘You don’t love me, do you?’

  ‘I’m not a young man, Diane. I love you in my fashion. But it’s not the kind of love that you feel when you’re in your teens or twenties. You shouldn’t worry about it.’

  ‘I worry, Marty. I sometimes think I’m too hard for you. I don’t have any kids and I live for my work and I sometimes forget to be a woman in the way that I should be. Oh, I know I’m good in bed, I make you happy that way, but I sense that’s not enough for a man like you and so we’ll never be as close as we should be. It’s in me, Marty. I knowit! I’m too intense for my own good. I’ve no children and I’m into my forties and that’s made me too self-obsessed. I can’t help myself any more. It’s just what I’ve become. I lost my dad and I’ll never have a child and so my work’s all I have – that and the sex. That isn’t love, Marty. It’s a way to exist. It’s a way to keep fear outside the door, but it doesn’t let too much warmth in. I want you in my life. I think I need you, but I know you don’t love me. You want me – you might need me as well– but you can’t really love me because yousense that I’m never quite here. I hate that in myself, but I can’t help it, it’s just what I am. Do you love me even a little?’

  ‘More than that,’ he said, meaning it, but disturbed by her outburst, knowing just how troubled she could be and wondering what it might lead to. ‘I feel deeply for you, Diane, but as I said, I’m not that young any more. It’s just different, that’s all.’

  She stared steadily at him, her eyes as hard and bright as diamonds, then they softened as she smiled and leaned back, lettingher hand slip from his. ‘Well, then,’ she said, sounding calmer, back in control, ‘that’s all I needed to hear. A woman needs to know certain things.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ She smiled contentedly, brushed the blonde hair from her green eyes, glanced distractedly around the kitchen, then returned her gaze to him. ‘You know, for a workingclass lad, you’re a surprisingly sophisticated man. How did you manage it?’

  ‘I didn’t know that I had.’

  ‘You’re a man who’s never known his own virtues and that can be dangerous. I sometimes worry about you.’

  ‘It’s nice to know that you do.’

  She smiled again and nodded approvingly. ‘It’s nice to have a man who knows how to be nice all the time. Aren’t I the lucky one?’ It was a rhetorical question, requiring no answer. ‘So what are you planning today while I get on with my worthless work?’

  Relieved that the conversation had lightened, he said, ‘As a matter of fact, I’ll be seeing my admirer, Paddy Kearney. Him and a bunch of other old friends. We’re meeting in the West End.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You seem to be having a lot of those meetings these days.’

  ‘Every two months. We decided that it might be a good idea to get together on a regular basis– a kind of old boy’s club. Just to shoot the breeze, as it were, keepingin touch with each other.’

  ‘I didn’t think you were the kind to have regular nights out with the boys.’

  ‘It’s not a night out: it’s a lunch. A get-together with old friends from the regiment, to share a few fond reminiscences.’

  ‘Invite a belly-dancer along, do you?’

  Marty grinned. ‘No. And no strippers either. Apart from the booze and the bullshit, it’s a fairly pure lunch.’

  ‘And I’m pretty sure there’s a lot of bullshit being traded.’

  ‘It’s a regimental tradition.’ He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Anyway, I have a few things I have to do first, so I’d better be going.’

  ‘Yes, you do that,’ Diane retorted sardonically, then added with a convincing American accent: ‘You have a good day, now.’

  Marty put on his jacket, threw his rain coat over his right arm, kissed Diane full on the lips, then left the apartment.

  The lunch had already started when he entered the pub in Soho and took the stairs up to the lounge bar hired for the occasion. Entering the room, which was already filled with cigarette and cigar smoke, he found his friends seated at a table that ran almost from wall to wall, under two antique chandeliers, surrounded by faded paintings of country scenes and a few modern lithographs of famous British sportsmen. There was an L-shaped bar in one corner of the room, now covered with empty glasses – Marty had missed the welcoming drinks – but wine was being poured as two ladies in black dresses and white aprons served the starters.

  So deep were some of the men in conversation that they hardly noticed Marty’s late arrival; others waved at him and called out jovial greetings. Waving back, he took the chair beside Paddy Kearney, at the place of honour at the end of the table, facing Taff Hughes and beside Tommy Taylor, now nicknamed ‘TT’ by his mates.

  ‘You made it,’ Taff said as Marty took his seat. ‘I thought you’d got lost in the Big Smoke.’ ‘I’m amazed you two made it here at all,’ Marty responded. ‘You both being country boys and not used to big city ways.’

  ‘London’s a pleasant change after Oman, I can tell you,’ TT said, his dark eyes flashing admiringly at the two waitresses, both of whom were quite young and attractive. ‘It does my heart good.’

  ‘You’re a married man,’ Taff reminded him, speaking softly, his gaze still otherworldly, ‘so keep your eyes off those ladies.’

  ‘So sorry,’ TT said in mock contrition. Though now in his early forties and filling out slightly, Taff, a sergeant, had remained surprisingly youthful, his baby-blue gaze still distracted, his blond hair still plentiful. Despite his age, he was still a bachelor and loving son who lived at home in Wales with his parents when he wasn’t at Hereford. The mystery of his icecold killer’s instincts remained unresolved.

  TT had been a corporal for some time now, and was the youngest at this meeting, still only in his late thirties, with his dark hair showing no change, matching the brown of his restless eyes. Though he had been quiet and nervous when he first joined the squadron in Borneo, he had soon gained in confidence and proved himself to be a calm, courageous trooper. He was married with two children, both boys, but even though he talked constantly, affectionately, about his wife, he was a bit of a playboy when off the base, always in trouble with some woman and living a complicated private life. Taff, on the other hand, though as far as anyone knew not homosexual, had never spoken about, nor been seen with, a girlfriend. That was an enduring mystery as well.

  As for Paddy Kearney, a little older than Marty and still extremely handsome and debonair in his pinstripe suit, his auburn hair was streaked with grey and his flushed face was becoming a little jowly from too much good living. Nevertheless, he was still an attractive man and remained Marty’s best friend.

  ‘You’re late,’ he said, grinning, after Ma rty had greeted Taff and TT. ‘You missed the boozing session beforehand, but we drank your share. Hence the flushed, happy faces.’

  ‘T
hen I guess I don’t have to apologise. I did you a favour.’

  ‘True enough, but it isn’t like you to be late. Anything special?’

  ‘No, not really. I just dropped in to see my son, Johnny, and forgot the time.’

  ‘So how is he? For that matter, how are Lesley and Kay? I trust they’re all doing swimmingly.’

  ‘No problems, touch wood,’ Marty replied, after sipping his wine and sampling his avocado vinaigrette. ‘They’re all doing fine.’

  In fact, though his family was okay, he was having problems in accepting how old they were. His son, Johnny, a professional architect, had recently moved from Surrey to London to be a partner in a West End business specializing in the renovation of Victorian houses into modern flats. Now married with a wife and two children, both girls, he seemed particularly stable, satisfied and goodhumoured. Marty’s daughter, Kay, on the other hand, had studied to be a schoolteacher, her ambition since childhood, but married impulsively, at eighteen, to a fellow student, Stanley Turrell from Leicester. A decent but weak young man, he had taken Kay off to Leicester as soon as he’d gained his degree, which was one year before Kay was due to gain her own, thus putting paid to her dream of being a teacher. Now Stanley taught at a local school, took too many days off sick, was often in hot water with his superiors, and backed the horses too often with the housekeeping money while Kay looked after their three children, two girls and a boy. Though loving her kids, she was bitter about her lot and losing her glow. As for Lesley, the same age as Marty, she was healthily plump, greyhaired and maternal, older than her age. Still living in their old house in Weybridge, she led a busy life, filled with charitable activities, including lots of socializing. She always insisted to Marty, when they met, which they did about once a month, that she was happier living alone, in charge of her own affairs. He was inclined to believe her. Yet he found it hard to accept that the years had flown so fast and his world had changed so much. Even Ian, if he had lived, would have been almost sixteen years old. This was a truly frightening thought.

  ‘And Diane?’ Paddy asked with a teasing grin, always having had his doubts about her emotional stability and so expecting to hear the worst each time he and Marty met.

  ‘Fine as well,’ Marty replied blandly, though in truth this morning’s outburst had made him wonder.

  ‘Still trying to dig out political corruption wherever she sniffs it?’

  ‘You bet,’ Marty said.

  ‘She has a particularly jaundiced view of politicians and politics, as I recall.’

  ‘She has good reason for it,’ Marty said. ‘In the past few years she’s covered Bloody Sunday, the IRA bombing of the Para headquarters in Aldershot, the socalled inhumane interrogation techniques of the greens in Ulster, the Munich Olympics massacre and the Watergate scandal. She also went on the election trail with Harold Wilson, which made her even more cynical about politicians. She investigated the murder of Lord Lucan’s nanny, the attack on his wife and Lucan’s subsequent disappearance, which she reckons was aided and abetted by his highly placed Establishment friends, most of whom she despises. Last but not least, she recently flew to Vietnam to cover the fall of Saigon and the evacuation of the American Embassy. What she has to say about US involvement in that sordid affair is best not described.’

  Paddy chuckled. ‘She’s some lady,’ he acknowledged, then shook his head from side to side as if bemused. ‘That’s a very unusual relationship you have there, Marty. I must say, it intrigues me.’

  ‘It may intrigue you, but it satisfies me, so I’m happy enough to be involved. How are things with you?’

  ‘Angela sends her love. The kids are no longer kids. Life runs on rails as smooth as a skating rink and my fingers are crossed that it stays that way.’

  ‘How’s the film production business?’

  ‘Excellent. The dramatic increase in worldwide terrorism has only made our customers more keen to have counter-propaganda documentary films, which is what we supply them with. Since most terrorist groups are Marxistbased, I have no qualms at all.’

  ‘Diane was talking about that very subject this morning,’ Marty said as the used plates were removed, the main courses were placed on the table, and the wine glasses were topped up. ’She said Marxist terrorist groups are proliferating worldwide and the IRA are probably involved with them.’

  ‘She’s right on both counts. Have you ever heard of Terrorist International?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘It’s supposed to be an umbrella group for international terrorists, with strong roots in Colonel Gaddafi’s Libya and the Soviet Union. I think Gaddafi supports the IRA and has even trained some of its men. I’d like to make a documentary about that relationship, but unfortunately the British government doesn’t approve of me and won’t give their permission.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Paddy grinned. ‘They think I’m sticking my nose in where Ishouldn’t. Trading with heads of state who’d normally be the sole province of their ambassadors. But, given how inept our ambassadors usually are, I’ve no qualms about the British government either.’ He tucked into his main course, roast beef, talking as he did so. ‘Well, Marty, I hope you’re pleased that you managed to get your informal association off the ground. This is quite a turnout.’

  ‘Yes, I’m pleased,’ Marty said.

  These lunches, which had begun eighteen months ago, were not, as he had told Diane, just casual gettogethers of old SAS friends. Though arranged as social events, their specific purpose was to enable this carefully selected group of individuals to discuss matters of concern relating to the regiment. Marty had personally arranged this about a year after returning from Oman. Most of those approached by him were NCOs who had openly complained about certain directions the regiment was taking or, in particular instances, had been forced to take by the mandarins of Whitehall or the Head Sheds in the Ministry of Defence. The function of the association was to have those grievances aired, decide if they were justified and, if they were, find a means of dealing with them. This was done by a variety of methods, including private conversations with SAS officers in a position to deal with the matter in question; passive resistance to unpopular directives by NCOs with a great deal of clout; and the leaking of information to friendly officers in highly placed positions or, when that didn’t work, to the media.

  ‘I have to tell you,’ Paddy said, resting his knife and fork on his plate, ‘that while I’m proud to be part of this and think we’re doing good work, I doworry that we’re too close to the edge. For the NCOs to bring pressure to bear on officers is, I believe, pretty reasonable. But when you do it with a group of NCOs who are actually part of what is, to all intents and purposes, a secret association, then clearly you are bordering on the unethical. Indeed, it might even run counter to the very principles that we’re trying to uphold. And this association is, if I may say so, a secret one.’

  This was true enough. Though the association existed neither on paper nor in any official way, those who joined it had to vow that they would not discuss it with anyone not a member. To make the security even tighter, only those deemed almost certain to join were approached – and even then, cautiously – during informal conversations with the recruiting NCO, sometimes over a period of months, until he was certain that if the subject was raised, the possibility of a rejection was minimal. So far, this careful recruiting technique had ensured that no one finally invited to join had refused, which meant that only those in the association knew of its existence. In other words, it was a secret association and Marty could not deny the fact.

  ‘I think you’d agree,’ he said instead, ‘that secrecy is unavoidable under certain circumstances – the defence of the realm, for instance.’

  ‘I agree,’ Paddy said.

  ‘Well, since what we’re doing is for the good of the regiment, which in turn is for the defence of the realm, the secrecy of this informal association is justified. Without the secrecy, we simply couldn’t function and th
at’s all there is to it.’

  ‘I’ll accept that,’ Paddy said, ‘but what worries me more is the leaking of information to the media when we feel they’ll have more sway than we have. Whether or not we approve of them, regimental policies are the regiment’s business and should not be leaked to the media just because we personally disapprove of them and want to bring outside pressure to bear.’

  ‘I disagree,’ Marty said. ‘Even as long-serving NCOs, we can only bring a certain amount of pressure to bear. The media, on the other hand, can embarrass those in power and cause them to change their tune where we can’t. So if we find that our attempts to correct a harmful policy are ignored, I think we’re justified in leaking the details to the media in the hope that those hacks can do what we can’t. We’ve done it more than once in the past few months and it worked every time.’

  ‘The end justifies the means.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Paddy sighed. ‘I’m not sure that I agree, but I’m willing to go along with it for now, in the absence of anything more constructive. But please be careful, Marty, that you don’t make a big mistake. You have a strong moral streak and are easily outraged, but don’t let it make you overstep the mark with this association. In the end, all secret organizations are dangerous, open to corruption. Don’t let it happen here.’

  ‘I won’t,’ Marty promised.

  Paddy grinned and nodded his approval. ‘So what’s the main item on the agenda today?’

  ‘The subject we first raised at the last meeting: a way to help men who’ve left the regiment, can’t find work elsewhere, and are being shamelessly ignored by the government. I think I have an idea.’

  ‘I can’t wait to hear it.’

  Over brandy and cigars, Marty read out the complaints he had received in the past two months. Most of them had common ground: the increasing tendency of those in positions of authority to use the regiment for dubious or unsavoury purposes, such as tasks more suitable to policemen or anti-riot police; special training of the armed forces of foreign powers with dubious political aims; and surveillance that increasingly came close to infringing the rights of the individual in a supposedly democratic society.