by Duncan James
CHAPTER FOURTEEN – THE ENVELOPE
After lunch, Major Bill Clayton wandered across from the Mess to the Transport Office.
Corporal Harrington was having a quiet day, and had been looking forward to getting stuck in to his new paperback. He had to admit that, so far, the book itself was not living up to its cover, and that’s what had persuaded him to buy it. So far – page 53 he was on – there had been no reference whatsoever to a tall, willowy blonde with big boobs and not much on. And Major Clayton, nice bloke though he was, nearly always spelt trouble.
“Why is it,” asked Bill Clayton, “that it’s always you on duty when I come across?”
“I often ask myself the same question, sir,” replied Harrington.
“Anyone would think that you ran this place on your own.”
“It sometimes feels like it, sir,” replied Harrington. “How can I help?”
“Well,” said Clayton, “For once there’s no panic.”
“That’s a relief.”
“I would like you to book me two seats on the first flight out on Thursday, please.” said Clayton. “The day after tomorrow,” he added, just to be sure Harrington knew what day of the week it was. Clayton had spotted the cover on Harrington’s book.
“Who for, sir?” asked the Corporal.
“Me, and Sergeant Wilson,” replied Clayton. “And before you ask, I’ve got a meeting with the Prime Minister in Downing Street, and Sergeant Wilson has a meeting at Scotland Yard. Try to book us back on the last flight, if you would – neither of us knows how long we shall be.”
“Should be no problem, sir,” said Harrington. “I’ll get the tickets to your office in the morning.”
“Thanks.” Clayton turned to leave. “Oh, and, er, enjoy the book.”
Harrington blushed.
“Early start on Thursday, I’m afraid, sergeant,” Clayton said when he got back to his own office. “I’ve asked for seats on the first flight out, and the last one back. Tickets delivered here tomorrow. We’ll use my car to get to Aldergrove – save bothering the Transport office again. I give them enough trouble.”
The Prime Minister’s statement a few days earlier had really caused a stir, as everyone knew it would. So far, though, it had been difficult to accurately gauge reaction around the world to what he and the President had announced, but the early signs were reasonably encouraging. Certainly, there was unqualified relief that terrorism in Northern Ireland seemed to be at an end at last, although there was still the odd incident now and then, as there had been in Iraq. The Protestant population was more fidgety about the plan than anyone else, as expected, but even there, it seemed that the option of keeping a British passport or taking out dual nationality, coupled with the continuing representation at Westminster had been enough. There had also been a quiet ‘spin’ campaign going on for some time, to make sure they knew the alternatives - civil war or union with the South. The message that Britain had had enough had got through, and if continuing union with Britain was no longer an option, then the comfortable umbrella of the United States was better than the rest. There seemed to have been enough concessions to the Unionists for them to be reasonably content, at least for the time being. No doubt both sides of the divide would be seeking even more during the run up to the referenda and elections, when the people of Northern Ireland, and in the South, would finally express their views. And that process was due to start very soon, before too much opposition was allowed to build up on either side of the Atlantic.
Nick Marsden was in Bill’s office, as he still liked to call it, when Clayton returned.
“I had been thinking, you know, that it was time for me to sling my hook, as they say, and get back to Hereford,” he announced, “but suddenly, after Monday’s political hoo-hah, we seem to be getting busy again. So if it’s OK with you, I’ll hang around a bit longer.”
“I could still do with your back-up if you don’t mind. I shall be away from the office for bit in the next week or so I think.”
“Agreed, then,” said the Commander.
“As a matter of interest,” asked Bill Clayton, “why are we suddenly busy again.”
“The PM’s statement has brought all sorts of people out of the woodwork. You can hear the din of the whistle-blowers from here. We’ve had several very useful tip-offs from anonymous individuals who want to clean their slate and their consciences while there’s time. There are a couple of quite important people we need to pick up – they were on our initial list – and there are a few, small, arms caches to deal with, ‘as a result of information received’, to use the jargon.”
“That’s good news,” said Bill. “Tell me about the weaponry.”
“Nothing really big,” replied Marsden, “although one, a UVF haul, is well worth getting rid of. And lots more illegally held weapons are being turned in by their owners, too, according to our police chums at Knock. The Police can actually deal with most of this, but I’ll get a team together to deal with the ammo. when we find it.”
“Excellent. But I’m sorry we’re getting busy again right now, as I’ll miss a bit of the action when I go to London on Thursday.” said Clayton.
“With the lovely Sergeant Wilson, I see!” Marsden pulled his leg.
“That’s right. She’s using a contact of hers’ to gain unofficial access to some records at Scotland Yard that I wanted to go through, and I’m meeting the Prime Minister again in the afternoon. There’s no end to the fun, is there!”
“Brian Foley will be here, though, so we’ll manage without you for a day,” replied Nick Marsden. “What are the records Wilson is searching through, as a matter of interest?”
“If I can, I’ll tell you when we get back, if they prove to be at all relevant. But they may not – we’ll see.”