by Chris Petit
As they rode out the storm he wondered what lay ahead. He hadn’t called Churton’s people to tell them of his arrival: from a desire to be bloody-minded; because he wanted to see if they would track him; because he refused to be beholden to Churton’s lot any more than Nazir’s. He wanted to know what would happen if he walked in the front door, past Passport Control and through the Customs’ green channel. He was not even particularly nervous. He had every faith in the inefficiency of large organizations. No one came for him on the plane. His passport inspection was far more cursory than Nazir’s and no Customs men stopped him.
He took the Underground from the airport and changed to the Northern Line at Leicester Square. He was going to go home then lost his nerve when he realized Churton’s people probably had the house under observation.
He returned to the hotel instead, after loitering outside to make sure no one was waiting. Everything looked normal and he told himself he was being paranoid. He checked at the desk. No one had asked for him, only a message from Stack saying she had been trying to reach him and asking him to call back as it was urgent.
She wasn’t at her desk when he rang and had to be fetched. She sounded impersonal and efficient and said she would return his call immediately, leaving him to wonder what was going on. Her voice contained no trace of the previous night’s intimacy. He had no idea where they stood.
‘Sorry,’ she said and explained she wanted to use a line in a private conference room.
He thought she was going to tell him their night together was a mistake.
‘I have a mole in the MoD and your name is coming up.’
‘Oh yes,’ he said, not bothering to sound surprised. At least she had the decency to sound embarrassed. He had been expecting something like this since his talk with Round. He wondered if Stack wasn’t the real go-between for Churton and Nazir.
‘I’ve been shown documentation that you sold security systems to airfields, military bases and prisons in Iraq.’
‘It’s a fake.’
‘Did you mention our meeting with Nazir to anyone?’
Collard was too surprised to answer.
‘Have the two of you had previous dealings?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I’m being told you already had a connection to him, that you provided the covering paperwork for several large arms deals, creating false end-user certificates.’
‘It must have been obvious to you I had never met him.’
‘I’m told you used Sandy Beech and his brother to handle those orders.’
‘Not true. Beech works for Nazir.’
‘And you broke into Beech’s house to retrieve compromising documents.’
That stopped him. He thought: they can twist it any way they want.
‘All right. I did that. I was following a lead on Nick given by Nigel Churton.’
He wondered if she would pick up on Churton’s name. One thing was becoming clear. Whatever was going on with the smears against him, it had to be intelligence-related.
‘I’d never heard of Nazir until a week ago. Your mole is lying.’
‘He may not be. He could be passing it on in good faith.’
‘In that case someone is trying to discredit me. You must be able to see that.’
He wanted to add: after last night. He felt threatened and destabilized by the suspicion in her voice.
‘Have you been investigating me all along?’
‘Of course not. I’ve been trying to help.’
‘Tell me again why you were at that party.’
‘For the same reason you were. I had a lead on Nazir.’
‘Who gave it to you?’
She wouldn’t say.
‘All right,’ he conceded. He supposed a reporter had a right to protect her source. ‘What about last night? Was that trying to help?’
She retreated further into silence.
‘Or was it a desperation measure?’
Silence.
‘Did I have a sign round my neck saying “damaged goods; fuck as required”?’
‘You know it wasn’t like that.’
‘Count yourself lucky. The rest just got to fuck my head.’
‘I wanted you.’
‘As part of whatever game is going on? I have no idea what any of this is about except the refusal of anyone to be straight with me, and you’re up there with Nazir and Churton.’
They all had something they were trying to protect, for which they were prepared to sacrifice everyone else.
‘You’re wrong. Believe me. I can’t say any more.’
She sounded sincere but his suspicion tainted everything.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make it personal.’
Collard suspected she, like him, was floundering.
Before she rang off, she said, ‘What I wanted to say is be careful. Someone trying to tie you in with Nazir might be because this whole thing is even more connected than anyone realizes.’
‘Are you saying I’m being framed as a direct result of the crash?’
She would not say any more and quickly rang off. Collard noted his hand was steady as he hung up. Despite that, he knew his life was in free fall.
Like father, like son: they were both being used and positioned to make them look guilty. The meeting with Nazir left him compromised and precarious.
He called Round persistently and was told he was unavailable. He left messages but his call was not returned.
Everything was being fed back through the crash – the present, the past. He couldn’t imagine a future. The crash underscored everything and affected it retrospectively. Accusations of his illegal trading with Iraq seemed, incredibly, to be part of it, putting him in a similar position to Nazir, without the resources to fight back. But that sounded too melodramatic. In his case there was nothing to frame. He was an ordinary businessman.
Driven out by frustration, he took the car and headed south through Chalk Farm and Camden Town, pushing it up to seventy on the elevated section of the Westway, for a burst of speed in a congested city. Rooftops skimmed by. At the roundabout he took the spur to Shepherd’s Bush and drove across to Hammersmith to the motorway link and out towards the airport where it had all begun the moment he heard the news.
Everything before was prelude, ignorance.
It was getting dark by the time he reached the airport. The inner perimeter road took him past the cargo areas and the aircraft hangars. A barrier was down and he had to wait as a jumbo jet was towed in.
The vast belly of its hold was hugely apparent at ground level and Collard thought, Anything could have been on that plane. He had always believed the holds of planes were filled with the passenger baggage that was disgorged onto the carousels in arrivals halls. Now he saw them as massive storage containers capable of holding any kind of mysterious or threatening object. God only knew what the total cubic capacity of this space was across all the airliners taking off and landing every day: thousands of mysterious black holes of which the passengers sitting above remained oblivious. In the security of the cabin with its calculated distractions he had never given a second’s thought to what lay beneath. The process of all air travel was conditioned by trivia: the welcome aboard, the muzak, the dreary magazines, drinks and peanuts, menu selection, movies. He had presumed it had all been carefully thought out to allay passenger nerves and break up the tedium of spending too long in a cramped space. But what if it was also calculated to stop people asking what else was on board?
Passengers were just decoration.
A few light flakes of snow fell on Collard’s windscreen, the lit sky a dirty yellow.
He had been a passenger in his job too, sitting in the cabin, unaware of what was going on below. He wondered if the illegal transactions had in fact taken place or been fabricated to tie him in with Nazir. He thought the latter. Round was ambitious but he wasn’t criminal. Tranter he was less sure about, but if something untoward had been going on Collard was sure he would h
ave heard rumours. His colleagues were decent people and he wasn’t so out of touch.
His ignorance led him to wonder whether a cover-up had been necessary after the crash because they hadn’t known what was on the plane and everyone – including Sheehan, Churton and Nazir – was scared of what they didn’t know.
Collard drove back into the city past the flashing Lucozade sign, once the only landmark in a dreary stretch now modernized with glass towers like children’s building sets, their remedial designs and primary colours symbols of a new England, simplified, bright and unattractive.
He got held up on the Cromwell Road, blocked solid in both directions because a juggernaut had broken down turning across a major intersection. The night was full of hooting and angry, miserable people trapped in their cars.
The Achilles Heel
The line that haunted Angleton most was Guy Burgess’s sneer, ‘You are not as clever as you pretend.’
Intellectual inferiority was his Achilles heel, nights undone by a fear that cleverness was not enough. The maze of contradictions in search of interpretation. The clutter left by lesser minds, failure of analysis. The worm of hopelessness (the gut companion to uncertainty): what hope of penetration? Really, in the end?
The stiletto of fiction. That was what he looked to insert into any operation, by way of information and disinformation. The lie must embrace the truth. ‘Wild lies, gentlemen, are of no use to us. Rectal thermometers would not be able to detect the heat being given off by a well-placed lie.’
Angleton saw what Collard could not; how could he? Collard was nowhere near to uncovering Quinn. Quinn was the McGuffin. Quinn was also the axis around which everything turned. Quinn would wait (and have to wait).
Collard had yet to learn it was always personal, how-ever big. Bomb plots, like anything, came down to the same motives of opportunity, fear and greed. The trigger was always human.
Collard was in the zone but not yet central. He knew nothing about Operation Ghost, or who had taken the photograph of Beech in the desert (a big clue), or why the CIA agent also in the picture had been tortured to death in Lebanon two years before they abducted Quinn.
The fiasco of Quinn’s kidnap had taken the shine off Wales, the supposed final triumph of his career: Philby in the bag. Instead Angleton had been left to tidy up Slobbery Bill Casey’s mess.
In Angleton’s day spooks were well-turned-out men, a civilized demeanour and properly cut suit reminders of the higher principles required for nefarious work. They understood ambiguity. Casey was too literal. Casey dressed badly. Casey mumbled. Casey broke things. The last time they met, in Angleton’s conservatory, Casey knocked over a prize orchid without apology, payback for the tedium of too much close analysis and Angleton’s insistence on metaphorical readings. Angleton screeched, ‘Do you know how long that fucking thing took to grow?’ Casey thought you could plant an operation and reap the benefits. Casey’s favourite film was Rambo. Casey enjoyed pitching Rambo-type scenarios to a President with the attention span of a gnat. Casey played golf (unforgivable), to a poor handicap (more unforgivable). Casey blundered. He was all can-do and kick-ass. Casey failed to understand intelligence, let alone its counterpart. Casey lacked what they used to call application in school. Casey was a problem-solver. Casey didn’t give a fuck about Angleton’s wilderness of mirrors.
The Favour
Round lived in Vauxhall, across the river, in a huge white stucco house bought at the end of the 1970s for a fraction of its present value. Money had been lavished on it in a way that made Collard’s efforts look pathetic. The expensive handcrafted kitchen probably cost more than his entire refurbishment budget for the last fifteen years. Every detail from reinstated moulding to keyhole covers had been thought about. Each time Collard visited he was amazed how anyone had found the time, let alone the money, for such a vast and useless project – useless in that Round’s wife was responsible for the constant renovation and none of it alleviated her obvious misery.
Round came to the door with his mouth full.
‘Where the hell have you been?’
His crossness made Collard unexpectedly flippant.
‘I decided to make my own way back and here I am. We need to talk.’
‘We’ve got guests, a small dinner party.’
‘I can wait.’
Decorum prevailed. Round resorted to being the immaculate host and invited Collard to come and join them for coffee and a glass of wine. Collard knew Round didn’t like surprises.
The small dinner party consisted of eighteen guests. Collard was put down the wrong end of the table between an attractive woman and a man in Armani. Irritated by his intrusion, they barely acknowledged his introduction and carried on with their witty, lascivious flirtation. Michael Heseltine was up the other end, a sign how much Round had moved up. The party was a very calculated affair, which Collard’s arrival in an old jersey and jeans went some way to upsetting. Round’s guests were affluent and successful without a moment’s doubt between them, the top end of the table taking its cue from the guest of honour, murmuring appreciation at whatever bon mots he chose to drop. Heseltine looked pleased, his leonine mane immaculately coiffed, unmatched by any other man at the table, or woman.
Collard had once aspired to such mutual endorsement of like-minded people, having done his share of dinner parties where he made the right noises listening to dull wives rattle off the names of their children and the various private institutions they attended, or discussed Tuscan holidays and second homes, and been tactfully silent as they moved on to their class prejudices and racial anxieties. Now he had an overwhelming desire to see them put in their place, Heseltine too, and the pathetic illusions of their lives exposed.
He left the room and went to watch television in Round’s study. It was as overappointed as the rest of the house, with glass-fronted bookshelves, an extravagant marble fireplace and a television hidden in a cabinet. The News at Ten was coming to an end. Collard heard someone behind him and turned expecting Round. It was Heseltine. He looked at the television, his vague charm at its most apparent, and asked if anything was going on. For a moment Collard was on the verge of asking him what he knew about the bomb plot. The moment passed and Heseltine gave a general smile and said goodbye.
Round found him watching a repeat of The Sweeney.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Sit down. I need to talk.’
‘Brandy?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Mind if I do?’
‘Go ahead.’
For the moment, they were as comfortable as old tennis partners knocking up. Round left the room for as long as it took to get his drink.
‘I should have called first,’ said Collard when he returned, temporarily paralysed by the deadly politeness of the house.
Round waved the matter aside and turned down the sound on the television with a remote control.
‘Charlotte and I have split up.’
It was the first time he had told anyone.
Round obliged by appearing correctly shocked. Collard felt bad bringing it up, cultivating Round’s sympathy, to soften him up.
Round fidgeted and sighed. ‘What a bloody awful business. Charlotte will come round. You need to be together at a time like this.’
He stood toying awkwardly with the remote.
‘Useful gadgets these, when you can find them. The kids are always losing them. I called Customs this morning and spoke to someone called Farrell and pointed out the unlikelihood—’
‘I hope you put it stronger than that.’
Round winced. ‘Of course. I pulled rank and told him to call off his dogs for the moment.’
‘Really?’
Round looked smug. ‘In the interests of national security. Now you know why you weren’t stopped at Heathrow.’
‘Thanks a million.’
‘You don’t have to be so sour about it. I did you a big favour. You have fucked up with Churton, not coming in as you were told
.’
‘Nazir said something interesting about Churton.’
‘Oh yes.’
Collard detected nervousness in Round’s offhand answer.
‘He said I should ask Churton if he was ruthless enough to expose Nick to an intelligence operation.’
Round took several moments to absorb the implications.
‘The man’s talking through his hat.’
‘Actually, he was rather plausible. Not at all what I had been led to expect.’
‘Don’t be disingenuous. Nigel had never heard of Nick.’
‘Yes he had, and he also knew of me. He recognized the name and asked you if he was my son.’
Round looked momentarily aghast.
‘Did he? I don’t remember. Come on, this can’t be right. Think about what you’re saying. You can’t take the word of an international criminal.’
‘An international criminal with connections to British intelligence.’
‘I’m sorry. Now we’re in the world of Walter Mitty.’
‘British intelligence once tried to blackmail Nazir into becoming its agent. Nazir implied Churton is senior intelligence. The inference is, Churton was the officer who tried to recruit Nazir, who seems to have ended up working for him anyway, as a consultant on matters of terrorism.’
‘No way! The man’s a terrorist and murderer.’
‘We live in an age of consultants.’
‘Not funny.’
‘Why did Churton send me to meet Nazir?’
‘You know perfectly well.’
‘Churton hasn’t got an ounce of altruism in his body.’
‘Not fair.’
‘I think I was there to cover for the real go-between. I also believe Churton had an ulterior reason for putting me together with Nazir, which is not a million miles away from this mess with Customs. It certainly wasn’t so we could have a chat about Nick.’