The Vengeance Man

by John Macrae

  I was taken aback. "Yes, of course. Doesn't everybody? I thought it was compulsory round here."

  Mallalieu waved impatiently. "No, no, I didn't mean like that. I meant, do you believe that it works? Do you believe in it?"

  "Sometimes. Wasn't it Churchill or someone who said that no political system was really any good, but democracy was the least bad?"

  Mallalieu smiled thinly. "Yes. Something like that. But will it win?"

  "Win?"

  "Yes. Triumph over its rivals? Survive, even?"

  "I don't see why not. It's a pretty hardy plant."

  "No, it's not. Did you realise that over eighty percent of the members of the United Nations are un-democratic by our standards?"

  "Sure - I read it in the Economist every week. But it seems to be popular enough. Look at the profits the LSE makes from overseas students."

  What the hell was Mallalieu up to? I was certain that he hadn't invited me here for a political soirée and a quiet chat over the brandy about the problems of the contemporary world.

  "The problem with democracy as a system is that its very qualities, the ones that we admire and like, breed the seeds of its own destruction. It's a self-indulgent and inefficient way of running a modern state."

  I gathered that he wasn't very keen on democracy. "Colonel, are you suggesting we should hand the whole lot over to Brussels? Anyway, I thought we’d done that already. That’s democracy for you" A thought struck me. "You're not advocating a coup or anything like that, are you?"

  "Don't be bloody silly - who'd want to take over this shower?" He refilled the glasses. "No, what I mean is that democracy invariably panders to the lowest common denominator, the most - numerous, I suppose, group of voters in society, and bribes them."

  "Bribes them?"

  "Yes, by giving them what they want."

  "So, what's wrong with that? Isn't that just another definition of democratic politics?" I could be as cynical as Mallalieu, if that was the game he wanted to play. This was nonsense. What was he up to?

  "It's just that we're bribing the very people who aren't really qualified to make the best long-term judgements for society." He looked up and saw my face, and said, "No, let me finish. I'm not saying that ordinary people are fools or villains, or even just badly educated. It's just that the average voting family sitting in a council house in Walsall or wherever can't honestly be expected to worry about what's best for the country. They're too busy worrying about the husband's job, whether Sharon's another under-age pregnancy, will Kevin get his GCSE in woodwork and a job, have they got enough for their package holiday this year, what's on the telly, soap operas, celebrities, footballers, stuff like that? Christ, they don't care. Look at the turnouts for local elections for God's sake. People are apathetic. More folks vote for reality TV shows than for their local councils…. Lots more."

  A distant memory of the Meekins on the telephone popped into my mind. "So what's wrong with that? I'd rather have that than everyone being an active member of some crackpot political party."

  He ignored me. "We pander more and more to that ..." he searched for the word and rejected them all, " ... that class of person, and they control our destinies. Indirectly."

  I couldn't help smiling. I knew Mallalieu was a bit of backwoodsman, but I hadn't got his card marked as an eighteenth century Tory. I tried to fathom what he was getting at. Was he recommending oligarchic government, like some drunken young fogey undergraduate? I shrugged. "Well, that's the People’s democracy for you. The greatest good for the greatest number. Rule of the majority, like it or lump it."

  "But that's just the point. In other words, the tyranny of the majority. We've even got a cultural tyranny of the lowest common denominator. Look at the television: Eastenders, Coronation Street, Celebrities, Big Brother . . . bloody rubbish like that."

  "Maybe they don't all want to see the English National Opera made compulsory viewing?"

  Mallalieu pulled a face. "Neither do I. But that's beside the point. While these happy masses are being kept sweet with free dole handouts, benefits, council housing, a Health Service full of artificial jobs and all that nonsense, the real world still goes on outside. You can't run a modern state on bread and circuses."

  I took his point. "So what are you suggesting as an alternative? Cut off the dole? Close down the NHS? Stop free bus passes for pensioners? You'd have rioting in the streets, once the protest machine got busy with that."

  "Don't joke about it. Reforming the public services is the last thing the politicos dare try and do. Too many cosy votes there. The point is, that's why you can't expect politicians to solve the problems of a democratic society. They're terrified of civil disorder, of losing popularity. The truth is Democracy hamstrings them. Their hands are tied; they're prisoners of their own popularity and press cuttings. It's the tyranny of the majority. That's my point."

  I was puzzled. Mallalieu's mobile face was earnest and sincere. "So what are you saying, Colonel? Bring back national service? That you think that we should have a change of government? A military coup?"

  "No, no" He was shocked. "You've not understood at all. What I'm trying to say is that they're - we're - all fiddling while Rome burns down around us."

  I couldn't smell any smoke. I thought he was over-reacting and told him so.

  Mallalieu changed tack. "What I'm saying is that we've muzzled the mob and tamed it. But the mob, the new mob, now effectively prevents us dealing with long term threats to its own comfort. Through its institutions, like the tabloid press, television... the BBC wailing on about cuts. That sort of thing."

  "So?" Mallalieu was uncomfortable. "Colonel, I don't disagree with your theories. I'm sure Cromwell and Hitler would have agreed." He flushed. "But we can't change the world to suit ourselves, can we? Anyway, the mob in their safe council house cages don't seem a problem to me. Life seems to go on all right. "

  Mallalieu didn't like that. "You shouldn't equate Cromwell with Hitler," he snapped. "Cromwell spent most of his career trying to make his brand of democracy work. He only gave up in despair at the end. And Hitler was elected democratically -- several times. Don't ever forget that. But we do agree on one thing."

  "Do we? What's that?"

  "That phrase of yours about the mob in their council house cages is exactly right. They're well bribed and relatively happy. But while we're giving them bread and circuses, the country still has to be defended."

  "Defended?" I was totally baffled now. "Are you advocating greater defence expenditure or something? No more Defence cuts?" I silently wondered what the hell he was trying to get across.

  "No, no." Mallalieu shook his head and paced the room again. "No. I'm doing this very badly."

  I agreed with him. What on earth he was on about?

  "What I'm trying to say is, just because you're sitting in your warm, cosy council flat in Walsall or Wigan or wherever, watching 'Match of the Day' on the box with a can of beer in your hand, doesn't mean that everything really is all right and some new millennium has arrived. That your cosy little world isn't threatened, and doesn’t need protecting."

  "Oh, come on , Colonel. Against who? Al Qa’ida? The Russians? The Yellow Peril from the East? You're not really going to tell me that someone's preparing some great threat to the UK because people sprawl in front of the box drinking beer and watching celebrity crap on the telly? Where's the threat? Global terror? I don’t think so."

  "No, of course not. Although they're lots of people who would certainly take advantage of a weak Britain if we were daft enough to let that happen. Germany and France for starters. That's why all this European nonsense is so dangerous. No, what I'm really saying is that all these sheep in their cosy little pens," he waved a disparaging arm to indicate the rest of the population of the United Kingdom, "All these sheep need protecting so that they can sleep warm in their beds of a night." He swirled his drink and looked down at the glass. “Wasn’t it George Orwell who said something about, ‘We sleep well in the nig
ht because rough men stand ready to do violence on our behalf’? “

  "OK. I see your point. But you still haven't told me what this great threat is, Colonel. Protecting? Against what? Terrorism?" I persisted.

  "Against themselves, as much as anything. Against their own reluctance - their ignorance - to act decisively to protect their cosy little world. Even to pay for that protection. Someone has to take the unpleasant decisions for them and do the messy things that have to be done. The things that they can't or won't do for themselves." He fiddled with his glass, eyes down. "Let me ask you a question about democracy."

  "I'm intrigued; wasn't that where we came in ?"

  He grimaced at my sarcasm. "I’ll tell you about democracy. Do you think that a thousand sheep would vote for vegetarianism?"

  I laughed, "I think that there's a pretty fair chance of it." It conjured a beguiling image.

  "Does that make vegetarianism right?"

  I considered. "Well, if you're a sheep, being a vegetarian does have certain attractions...."

  "What about the wolves?" Mallalieu eyed me keenly. "What about the wolves? Are they for vegetarianism? A thousand sheep can pass resolutions favouring vegetarianism, but it's useless unless the wolf goes along with it too, isn't it?"

  It was a neat point. "OK, but in a democracy we tame our wolves - or bang them up in nick." A thought occurred to me. " Unless they're Northern Irish Paramilitaries, or Muslim clerics, of course."

  Mallalieu pulled a face. "So we do, so we do." He pulled out the cork and topped up the glasses again, spilling some onto the reproduction Regency wine table. I mopped it up with my handkerchief and noticed that it wasn't reproduction. "But what do these democratic sheep do about marauding wolves from outside? The ones from the woods the other side of the hill?" He put the bottle down with a bang.

  I reckoned he’s lost it. "What sort of wolves are we talking about here? Mad dogs? Terrorists? People who won't play the game by democracy's rules or the Good Friday agreement? Osama bin Laden’s happy band of followers?" I was baffled.

  "Ah, you get my drift. Yes. What do we do about terrorists and major drug dealers?"

  I shrugged. "Jail them. Personally, I’d top some of the bastards."

  "Kill them?" Mallalieu looked shocked. "What Minister of the Crown, democratically responsible to Parliament, would sign a convicted terrorist's death warrant? And capital punishment's finished now, except for buggery in Her Majesty's dockyards."

  "Only if you're trying to commit arson the time," I matched his mood.

  He smiled thinly and sat back. What was Tom Mallalieu up to? I was beginning to get his general drift - or so I thought. He didn't like democracy because it was weak. He didn't have a high opinion of "The People", whom he thought were sheep. He thought that someone else had to take the hard decisions for them. He thought that someone had to protect the sheep from the wolves - himself? Me? If anyone was a wolf, a carnivore in a pinstripe suit, it was Colonel Tom Mallalieu, late of the Intelligence Corps and the Parachute Regiment.

  I looked carefully at him over the puddle of warm Armagnac, his eyes shadowed by the lamp, dark and unfathomable. What sort of man was he, really? Was he a patriot? Was he some kind of closet fascist - better suited to the SS? No; plump, sexy Christina wouldn't let him be that, that's for sure. Or was he just some kind of realist looking out on a real world, trying to reconcile the fantasy of political theory with the nasty business of political survival? An honest man trying to do a job in today's real world? I can truthfully tell you at that moment Mallalieu completely baffled me: more – he intrigued me. What the hell was he leading up to?

  “What's so important about terrorists and druggies all of a sudden? Is there one in the nick who needs to be hanged or something?"

  He shook his head. "No, it was really a general point." He looked at me again as if waiting for an answer to an unstated question.

  "Well," I hazarded, "Are you suggesting that we get rid of society's enemies - terrorists - to protect it?"

  He stared back, his face mask-like. "You tell me."

  I shrugged. "No contest; of course we should. Even at the risk of creating martyrs. Preferably while they're on the job – remember the old Iranian Embassy, years ago?" He nodded. "Well," I continued, "that's how you should deal with terrorists; top 'em on the job. Find out who they are where they are and take ‘em out. Hope you’ve got the right boys and put ‘em down. Win the gunfight, crush the bastards so that no other bugger thinks the game's worth the candle 'cos he'll get blown away, too." I was vehement - savage almost. “Anyway, that's how I'd deal with terrorists."

  "Peace through superior firepower?"

  "Yes, if you like. Plus good intelligence."

  "Do you think that's what most other people would think?"

  I nodded. "Yes, and that's where you're wrong about democracy. I reckon that if you went to your mythical council house in Reading or Walsall or wherever and asked them, that's what they'd say. They'd vote for it in a flash. That's what the democratic view of the majority is. Especially if the Sun says it is."

  I remembered the pub conversation about the Meekin case. "Any referendum on hanging would win. You know it would. They don't like terrorists any more than they like paedophiles..." I suddenly realised what I'd said, but ploughed on quickly: "That's really what most people want. That's real democracy. They want to see the bad guys dealt with. Hanged. Cut their goolies off..." An image of Spicer and the three Brixton muggers popped unbidden into my mind; I suppressed it quickly.

  I'd said too much.

  He nodded. "I agree. So why doesn't it happen?"

  We both knew perfectly well why it doesn't happen. "Because politicians haven't the guts for it? Because we're manipulated by a trendy liberal press that’s only democratic provided you agree with what they say is right? Because we're all so bloody politically correct now that we daren't make a squeak? Because the politicians, the BBC and the media are too well educated and too comfortable to soil their hands?” I slurped some of the Armagnac. This was boring. “Hell, I don't know.”

  "Yes," he agreed. "It's all those things." He mused, stretching out to contemplate his elegant suede chukka boots. "I thought that's how you'd feel."

  The warm Armagnac, the comfortable chair and the good meal had all taken their effect. I was relaxed and slow thinking; too slow-thinking.

  "Yes," he said again. "I knew you were the right man. I just had to be sure."

  Too late an alarm sounded in my mind as I refocussed concentration. "Now hang on, Colonel; taking out arms dealers is one thing. . . I mean that was Bosnia, Italy, and government, not private bloody enterprise. . ."

  He cut me off short. "Just listen to what I have to say, first. What do you know about international crime?"

  "Not a lot; there's a lot of it about...."

  "Precisely. You could argue that some of the really big criminal bosses are almost respectable, now . . .

  I broke in. "Sure. They even get to become Italian Prime Ministers or EU Commissioners. They haven't quite been invited to address the UN yet, but I get your drift."

  "They probably will be." Mallalieu smiled grimly. "Who do you think has kept the Mafia in business over the years?"

  I shrugged. He'd lost me again. "The local population? Weak governments? Corruption? Public support?" I trailed off.

  "Aha ! But whose public support?"

  "I don't know. Italians, American ...

  He rounded on me, eyes gleaming. "Exactly. "'

  "What, American?"

  "Precisely. Whose interest is it in for the Mafia to succeed?"

  "I don't know...the Mafia?" What the hell was he on about now?

  "What do you know about the Mafia?"

  "Bunch of Yank crooks? No ... there's a Russian Mafia now."

  Mallalieu looked hard at me. "What about it being just a small part of a much bigger international organisation? An organisation that goes across the whole world."

  I was taken aback. "An organi
sation... What? Like an international company?"

  "Yes, that's about it - a big multinational."

  "Linked? What? Sort of like Crime Inc?"

  "As far as the Americans and Russians are concerned, that is just what it is. Crime Incorporated. A big institution, with lots of branches."

  I was taken aback. "Well, fine. But what's it to do with me... with us?"

  Mallalieu looked thoughtful. " That depends." He eyed me, appraising, cautious. "I'm going to tell you a number of things now that I don't want repeated; ever. Do you understand?"

  I shrugged. "I can keep a secret. I'm still under the OSA."

  "Yes, you are. I'm glad you reminded me." He paused, psychologically bunching up to pounce. "Well, this is very much covered by the Official Secrets Act. It's as big a thing as you're ever likely to hear. But I had to be sure that you were sound first."

  For the first time that evening I felt a stirring of real interest. When someone like Mallalieu says you're 'sound' it means he's going to invite you to join his club – whatever that club may be.

  "Well, " he went on, "There is an international crime organisation. Oh, it's not like IBM, or Microsoft, with a big marble headquarters and potted palms and executives and all that stuff. But the idea’s pretty much the same. It does the same job. And it's big. Global. Looking for new business. New profits. Probably the biggest World Organisation of them all. Branches – if that’s what you want to call them - all over the world. Of course, most of the people who work for it don't know that they’re working for crooks. They work for... subsidiaries: for associates. But in every country, in every continent, there is a network, a small group of like-minded men in charge, who know exactly what they're doing."

  "A sort of international Mafia?" I hazarded.

  "That is exactly what it is. But it's bigger, much bigger than the Mafia. Imagine that the American Mafia, the Italian Mafia , the Moscow fat cats, Cosa Nostra, the Colombian drug barons, the big banks, some governments..."

  I stopped him. "Banks?"

  He smiled. "I thought you'd enjoy that. Yes, banks. Big international banks. All working for the organisation. Funding it; cleaning its money, facilitating its operations. And that's just the start: banks, finance, business...."