The Vengeance Man

by John Macrae

  Mallalieu consulted a slip of pink paper on his desk. "Oh, trivial stuff, like your little expedition to Iran last year - like how Whitehall’s ace hard man was responsible for the British government’s protection squads in Chechnya right now - like the time Briggs went to Basra last month as a tourist and what the American clients had asked him to check…. The secret support for the Sri Lankans, the East Timor initiative – how we’re contracting ex-SAS bodyguards to protect the sheiks against al Qa’ida….. Links with big Russian companies…" He sneered, "Trivial stuff like that."

  I was stunned. If all this was true, then Briggs had been unbelievably stupid. Mallalieu pressed his advantage. "Well, what do you think?"

  "He'll have to go," I said without hesitation. "He can't stay." I looked at Andy, who nodded.

  Mallalieu eyed us both with a raised eyebrow. "I'd worked that out for myself."

  I tried to buy a little time to think. "What exactly happened with the policeman?"

  Andy answered. "Apparently Briggs got rowdy. He went off with some bird and Hemming tried it on with another one. There was some kind of argument and someone called the police. A young wally came round from Cannon Row in a Panda car. Jonno was calling the odds outside the pub. The copper tried to talk to him, so Jonno belted him. That's James's version, anyway; then he bailed him out."

  I felt my anger boil. I knew now how Mallalieu must have felt. "The stupid fool. I'm surprised they let him out at all." A thought struck me. "Did he do anything else ?" Andy nodded and looked at the ceiling. "Yes. Apparently he said he was a secret agent of the British government, licensed to kill and worked with an organization so secret that even British Intelligence knew nothing about it. "

  “What?!” exclaimed Mallalieu. “He said that?” He looked stunned.

  There was a long stunned silence. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. What a plonker. Andy looked embarrassed. "James told the police that Briggs had got pissed celebrating getting a part in the new James Bond film. It was the best we could think of at the time. The guy's a real spacer. He's a lunatic."

  "I wish he was," I added in what I hoped were suitably ironic tones. "Then we could lock the bastard up in Broadmoor. For life. I'm quite sure that a real Secret Service would know exactly what to do with him."

  "Well?" said Mallalieu. "What are we going to do with him?"

  I shrugged. "There's only one question, Colonel." They both looked at me. "Can we trust him? It'll go to court presumably?" Mallalieu nodded, grim-faced. "Well, Andy, can you trust Briggs to stay schtumm? Can you trust Hemming ?" I stared at him, but he didn't answer me. To use an oft-quoted cliché, his silence was eloquent.

  Mallalieu looked at him, too, then voiced all our thoughts. "I take it we're all agreed that we can't just leave it to take its course? That he'll blab his mouth off?"

  We both nodded.

  "Right." Mallalieu's manner was crisp. "Andy - he's suspended. Send a minder round to keep him in his house until further notice. And not that weak-kneed bloody James Bellingham, either. Even if he did the right thing and get him out of jail free. They're too damned pally. Put him away somewhere. And keep him under lock and key. Right?"

  "For how long?"

  "Until you hear different from me personally: or the police, if he wants to make life difficult for himself. Briggs stays inside, off his phone, until further notice. Got it?" He added, savagely, "Make sure you’ve got his mobile and that his laptop is taken away. And if he doesn't like it then hand him back to Canon Row or break his legs, if necessary. Right? But keep him out of circulation. Briggs mustn't talk to anybody. Understand?" Andy looked as if he'd swallowed something nasty, but nodded.

  "OK, off you go, Andy. Don’t let the bastard out of your sight. We’ll sort this out in our own way. I'll talk to you later." With a roll of his eyes at me, Andy left.

  When he'd gone, Mallalieu sat down and waved me to a seat. "Bloody Briggs. I’d break his neck if I had the chance. The man’s a loud mouthed arsehole.”

  I was about to say, “Well, you hired him….” But Mallalieu went on; … “That’s what comes of trying to expand our recruiting base. Bloody silly idea… Accountants’ bollocks.” From which I inferred that Mallalieu had not hired the unfortunate ex-stunt man.

  He blew his cheeks out noisily and seemed to relax. “How soon can you do that other little job we talked about?"

  "As soon as you like. But I’ll need briefing."

  "All right." He considered for a moment. "Come and see me at noon, at the Festival Hall, on the steps outside. We'll walk a little down the river and I'll fill you in. That'll be your briefing." It was unconventional, to say the least. I'd expected slides and maps and drawings in a briefing room, like a proper briefing.

  "That's it?"

  He looked at me sardonically. "Yes, that'll be it. What'd you expected? A Powerpoint presentation in the conference room?”

  I nodded, "Something like that.”

  Mallalieu laughed. “Not this one.”

  I tried to assess what it all meant. “So, what about the timing? When do you want me to do it?"

  "Tomorrow, or the day after."

  I was startled. I had expected more time. A lot more time. "Why the rush?"

  "Our client has changed his plans. It's as simple as that."

  I digested this information in silence. The timing looked very tight and I began to feel uneasy. A nasty suspicion occurred. "Look, this isn't a set-up, is it?

  Mallalieu looked pained. "What do you mean, a set up? No, it's not a set up; if it is, then I'm being set up too. It's just your best window of opportunity."

  "Ours, not mine. Our best window" I reminded him. "I'm not free-lancing, I hope?" It was a pertinent question.

  Mallalieu looked square at me. "No, you're not." He dropped his eyes. "This is a kosher contract, don’t you worry. I'll see you at noon." Suddenly he looked tired; but it wasn't yet ten a.m.

  CHAPTER 28

  The New South Bank Show, River Thames.

  True to his word, Mallalieu was waiting by the steps of the Festival Hall at noon, reading the concert programmes. He made a big production out of pretending to have met me by chance, and wringing my hand. In his dark overcoat with its velvet collar, he looked a real toff: like a prosperous businessman or something in the City. But then that's really what he was, I suppose. We strolled casually down towards the river, watching the barges and the tourist craft. It was a dull, grey sort of day and the seagulls were swooping over the wake of the launches screeching and arguing over scraps. Their screams echoed over the rumble of the trains from the bridges.

  Mallalieu didn't speak for a while. Then, as we leant on the wall and contemplated the North bank, and its panorama of buildings, he began quietly to give his brief. It was, by all the text books, far too casual a brief for such an important task, but as Mallalieu spelt out Roberts' background, itinerary, timings and movement plans without a note or a break in his speech, I knew that he had got it right. I shut up and listened to his every word. This wasn’t exactly the sort of job where you marked your map.

  He outlined a lot that no-one but an insider could have possibly known. I suppose it was the detail of his knowledge on Roberts' crime syndicates that was perhaps most impressive and convinced me that he was giving it to me straight. Currency, criminals, politicians, arms, drugs, terrorism: they all flowed out. Mallalieu had names, places, events; even bank accounts. He had seen it all, that was clear.

  He even dragged some documents out of his inside pocket and showed me some things that made my eyes bulge. Funnily enough the evidence of Roberts' treachery and double dealing between Russia and the CIA didn't surprise me at all. Maybe it was what I expected. But when Mallalieu recounted how Roberts had actually brokered the deal between the Colombian drug cartels and the Russian Mafia to become business partners and invest in television stations in Europe, I began to realize that Mallalieu had been right. Roberts was big, he was cunning and he was dangerous. Mallalieu showed me proof of Rob
erts personally paying off a British cabinet minister’s boyfriend and getting him a nice little job in the European Commission. He even had photocopies of copies of the incriminating love letters. Oh, I know that they could have been forgeries, but somehow I didn’t think they were. He had copies of e-mails confirming how Roberts had paid off an American senator’s gambling debts at Vegas and then contributed over $2million to his election campaign fund.

  It was astonishing just how wide his tentacles spread. He was selling arms in Jeddah to Al Qa’ida’s people and at the same time organising Saudi princes to buy smart houses in Boston, Massachusetts. I suppose it was all so obvious when you heard it, and so depressingly believable. I knew that big time politics were corrupt and that there was a big, secret world of back-handers and bribes out there, but I’d never realised before just how big – or how dangerous. The man was effectively the chairman of an invisible global organisation coordinating a huge international syndicate of crooked companies, straight companies, politicians and bankers. Just as Mallalieu had said. Terrorists too.

  Mallalieu ended by giving me a list of Robert’s itinerary for the next three days. It was the only thing he handed me. I scanned it, depressed to note that it included a meeting with the Prime Minister and a call on three embassies.

  “Gets around, doesn’t he?” I grunted.

  Mallalieu smiled wryly. “Now do you believe me?”

  I nodded slowly. I was quite clear in my own mind that someone had to fix Roberts. I had very few questions and they revolved around two clear choices: either I took Roberts out when he made a highly visible photocall to the front door of the Department of Trade and Industry in Victoria Street or when he visited the Italian Embassy the following day.

  "When's this DTI stunt timed for?"

  "Tomorrow. About eleven o'clock." Mallalieu prodded a piece of chewing gum on the pavement with his umbrella and began to stroll away. I followed, thinking furiously.

  "No, it can't be done. That's not on."

  He looked at me, his head on one side. "Oh, why?

  "Too soon; not enough recce; it's bound to be staked out with lots of cover and not enough getaway routes. Anyway, it's just down Victoria Street from Scotland Yard. It'll all be too much of a rush."

  Mallalieu nodded, but it was an absent sort of agreement. "And so ...?"

  "And so, it's got to be at the Italian Embassy."

  "Why?"

  I ticked off the points on my fingers. "The other visits I’d need to recce in detail. And there isn’t time. But I know Grosvenor Square, and the Italian Embassy….well, the front anyway. It’s an evening call; so it'll be dark. It's later in the trip - he'll be more relaxed. Lots of getaway chances, and I can go for him going in or coming out. And I know a hotel with a field of fire across the front of the Embassy."

  Mallalieu gave the same absent nod. He seemed to be turning it over in his mind. A group of gulls went by in a shrieking dogfight over a crust. "OK, go to it. Do you need anything more? Support? Kit? Anything else?"

  "No." The less unnecessary support I took, the cleaner the job should be, and the fewer links to cause trouble. "One question, though."

  He stopped and faced me, an attentive listener.

  "When I use that Venus, won't everyone in Whitehall know it's me?" He didn't answer, so I continued, "I mean, MOD made it, the SAS know about it; they know you've got it ... " I tailed off. Mallalieu was smiling.

  "Of course." It wasn't quite the answer, or the assurance, I'd expected from him. "That's why they gave it to us. That weapon is on my signature." He stressed the 'my'.

  "But I mean, what if ... "

  "Don't worry." He stared at me again. "I won't say you stole it or took it, if that's what you're worried about. Just bring it back. It's my risk as much as yours - if you stop to think about it. I'm in charge of the Venus. The people who matter know I've got it. They lent it to me. But no-one need ever know you had it. That's your ultimate guarantee."

  Something didn't add up, but it was hardly working against me. On the contrary, it all seemed too easy, too smooth. I probed for the awkward areas. "Do I do my own Close Target Recce?"

  "As you choose - wouldn't you rather do the CTR all by yourself?"

  I nodded. "Of course."

  "Good." He nodded. "I agree. It's best that way. What about back up?"

  "Would it be from the Firm?"

  "If you want it – but I wouldn’t have thought you would need it - do you?"

  I shook my head decisively. "No. The less folk know about this the better.” Mallalieu nodded agreement.

  “No. I’ll do it solo. I'll do it as a one off." Again Mallalieu nodded in that absent fashion. I was becoming irritated by him seeming lack of concern. Despite the accuracy of his brief and his outline plan, he was too relaxed. "So that's it?" I demanded. "Just like that? Nothing else?”

  Mallalieu smiled at me. "It's too easy? Is that it?"

  "Yes." I had to agree.

  He laughed. "I could make it really difficult for you, you know. Would you like me to warn the Special Branch bodyguards? Perhaps a few roof-top marksmen from the Armed Response Units watching for you?"

  "Of course not."

  "Well, don't be bloody silly. Just be grateful it's all designed to give you a clear run." He looked ostentatiously at his watch. "Now, if you're happy with your story ... "

  I gave in. "OK. The day after tomorrow. Evening."

  "Good." He smiled a rare smile. "Cheer up. You're doing a public service; there are no catches, I promise you. Here." He reached into his overcoat pocket and produced a small brown glass bottle of pills. "You'll need these, for phase one."

  I took them. “It’s all right,” he added hastily, spotting my expression, “They’re not poison pills. L pills are strictly for the CIA these days – and most of them get thrown away by the users, I understand.”

  He explained what they were. I had to admit it, phase one of Mallalieu's plan was simple, but bizarre. It sounded uncomfortable. He caught my eye. "Well; put them away. Here's the other essential." The other essential was a briefcase, stuffed full of props for his plan--and bundles of money.

  "It's twenty thousand," he responded to my unasked question. “All used twenties and tens. Pay your expenses out of that. No accounts, no receipts. Got it?" I nodded. “And don't give me any back. I couldn’t account for it." I raised my eyebrows. "Good. Just one thing," he said, suddenly swinging in front of me. "How do you feel about this?"

  "Feel? How do you mean, feel?" He didn't say anything and just stared at me. "I get it. You're wondering if I've got a bad conscience about doing it. Can I really do it ? Is that it?"

  "Hardly surprising, really? After all, you're being asked to undertake a pretty unusual job, aren't you?"

  Suddenly I thought of Spicer and the cold pleasure I'd felt malletting the Brixton muggers. I couldn't help laughing. This was much easier. "I've done stranger jobs than this: believe me." I looked at him full in the eye. "What you mean is, 'would Harry Plummer approve?'"

  Mallalieu dark eyebrows shot up. "No, I don't mean that. But it's a good point--a very good point." He looked away, thoughtful. "No, I don't think we'll be asking dear Harry for his signature on this one." He mused, then looked hard at me. "So you're alright about this, eh?"

  I smiled at him, and I meant it. "Yes. I'm all right. You don't have to worry. I'll do it. It's just a job. Tell you the truth, I’ll enjoy taking the bastard out. It’s as good a cause as any." A thought struck me. "By the way, does this op have a code word?"

  Mallalieu smiled a sardonic smile. Yes. It's 'Moriarty.'"

  "Whose idea was that?"

  "Yours, indirectly. Didn't you say to me, 'So there really is a Professor Moriarty?' "

  "That’s right….Then it's, 'Goodbye, Moriarty': right?"

  He laughed. "I knew I'd made the right choice." He glanced up towards the steps leading to Westminster Bridge. "Now, I really must go. Get sick. Stay at home. Come back when you're well. OK? Good luck."


  And with a cheerful wave of his umbrella, he strode away, the picture of polish and prosperity. As he went up the steps, he even drew an appreciative glance from an obvious blue-rinsed tourist as she waddled down with her camera-draped husband. I shook my head in disbelief and went off in the other direction.

  I kept a tight grip on the briefcase. With that lot, at least I'd be able to afford lunch.

  CHAPTER 29

  A PINT WITH A PAL, Whitehall

  In the bar of the Clarence, I pushed through the crowd to grab a pint, when a portly figure jabbed me in the ribs. I swung towards him, to see the bearded, grinning face of Paddy Croft, bellowing, "Have a drink, old son, have a drink"

  I hadn't seen Lieutenant Commander Paddy Croft in years. He was a naval reservist, who spoke several languages. His German was a bloody sight better than mine, but then he kept in practice. No Arabic, but he did Russian when it mattered as well, I remembered. His reserve speciality closely mirrored his full time Civil Service job, that of being a member of the Combined Interrogation Team, working out of the Home Office. He worked for MI5 debriefing Whitehall's delinquents.

  Paddy had been a submariner until he'd failed to make skipper on the Navy's infamous submarine commander's course, the dreaded 'Perisher,' and the general raffish air and bonhomie of the submarine service was still reflected in his dress and manner. He fell on me like the father of the prodigal son and insisted we take our sausages and pints to a corner table to reminisce about the past.

  He'd never really forgiven me for not talking to him on a particularly vicious Resistance to Interrogation course run by the Intelligence Corps deep in the Bavarian mountains years ago. The course had broken every rule in the book, much to the satisfaction of the SAS, and the discomfiture of some of the slightly surprised RAF aircrew who had only been ordered on the course as part of their general escape and evasion training. It had been strictly big boys’ rules in those days. No bloody nonsense about political correctness or keeping the Minister happy. We’d been training for war.