The Vengeance Man

by John Macrae

  "I'm glad you're pleased. But I ticked the box marked 'no publicity' - remember? Did it achieve everything your people hoped for?"

  Mallalieu nodded emphatically. "Absolutely; did you see the Financial Times this morning?" Not waiting for an answer he went on, "The share price of GHi has gone down by 171 pence on the stock market. Devastating. The whole rotten structure is falling apart without Isaac bloody Roberts. The individual companies are fighting among themselves. So's all his kids. The papers are even calling them the Diadochi...."

  "What the hell is that?"

  "It's what Alexander the Great's generals were called after his death, and when they all fought for his empire. The Diadochi." I should have known that Mallalieu liked to air his classical education. Or had he just learned it from the paper?

  "Personally, I rather like the parallel." He beamed at me. "And I understand that the whole organized global drug game has gone into confusion - collapsed pretty well worldwide as they all bicker among themselves. All the big fish are fighting among themselves for control, apparently. All those wicked drug barons peaching on each other to the Feds and anyone else who'll listen. The wires to Washington are humming. Box 500 are like dogs with two tails. It seems the Yardies in Jamaica had been importing handguns as well as drugs for an uprising. Five are having a wonderful time briefing ministers and making themselves look good, I gather, and the bloody spin merchants are about to present our lords and masters with an offer the government just can't refuse: 'Ministers in unprecedented drugs clamp down', or somesuch nonsense. Oh, yes. At last all those clever little girlies in Millbank can justify their expensive existence," he sneered.

  I remembered Paddy Croft's indiscreet remarks about the 'new FBI'.

  "There's no-one in charge now, you see; they'll fight among themselves until some other lump of shit floats to the top of the cesspool. The Russian Mafia are up in arms, the Saudis have gone ballistic and no-one knows who’s going to take Roberts’ slot. And, when one does, maybe this time the Americans will listen to us." Mallalieu stopped to look at me. "No. You did a good job. No loose ends."

  I thought of the dead policemen and bystanders. Were they loose ends? Obviously not. I looked again at Mallalieu’s long dark face, now staring thoughtfully towards the Palace.

  I thought that he was looking at the seat of constitutional power and thinking deep thoughts about the political implications of the shooting, but then realised that he was probably only calculating our chances of making it across the road unscathed. He turned away with a shake of his head, as if realising that the challenge of the Mall’s traffic was too great, even for his talents. Thankfully I followed him back into the Park.

  "On the Roberts shooting," he went on. "I've read the papers, and when I say papers, I mean I've been shown some real documents, not just the 'Sun'."

  "Oh? Anything interesting?"

  "Very. Apparently the Russians were furious at losing their expensive super capitalist backer and protested to the Yanks through the usual channels." 'The usual channels' sounded to me like a euphemism for a remarkably suspect piece of liaison. It was hard to imagine the CIA and the Russian Secret Service having an information exchange, even to complain of each other's imagined excesses. “They’ve accused the Americans of killing one of their agents. Threatened repercussions, etcetera…”

  He grinned at me. "The Americans were livid. Absolutely furious. They claimed that the whole thing was a Russian plot, because Moscow had killed their boy. Muttering about some top Spetsnaz hit man, all that kind of stuff. Wonderful. There must have been a hell of a row, because we got a lovely buzz that the Russians were at loggerheads with some of their own hard liners in the SVR over whether they should retaliate against the Cousins. They can call it what they like, but those old KGB instincts die hard. The joke was, the CIA Station Chief in Dublin had been given orders to take out Fedorchuk as well."

  "The CIA? Kill Fedorchuk? Roberts' Russian link?

  "That's the boy. Apparently the Yanks had some mad scheme to get an IRA gang who needed the cash to top him as he left for the airport so that the Yanks could teach the Russians a lesson. It would have been like a gang war. Unbelievable ..." he chuckled, shaking his head.

  The idea of the Russians and Americans squabbling over their dead criminal mastermind and their Mr Fixit double agent was not without its charm. Particularly in Ireland with Sinn Fein and the IRA. It couldn't happen to nicer people. The whole story had that unpredictable element of farce and double dealing that bitter experience had taught me was one of the signs of real authenticity in a topsy turvy business. "What happened then?"

  "Well, then it all began to get out of hand. The Cousins told Whitehall through liaison and at the highest level that they were considering a strike against a Russian player on UK territory. They're supposed to let us know if they want to play on our pitch. In case they're compromising a UK source, I suppose. It's all very proper: in theory. Except, of course, when the bastards are using British territory to run their agents against us."

  "So, anyway, Schultz, who's the CIA's London Head of Station, went to see the Chief Liaison Officer at the Cabinet Office to tell him officially what they were up to. In strictest confidence, of course.... But old Wimbourne told him it couldn't possibly have been the Russians who had hammered Roberts, because he'd heard that the Russians were planning to kill Schultz himself in London as they blamed the whole Roberts thing on the Yanks."

  I grinned. "Wow. What happened then?"

  "Well, apparently, Schultz turned a bit green around the gills and began to sweat and muttered something like, 'why should the Russians want to kill me, for Chrissake?' and the story goes that Richard Wimbourne muttered something discreet like 'Don't worry. I'm pretty sure it wasn't the Russians who really shot your chap, old boy. Would you like me to have a word with Moscow and ask them not to shoot you? I will if you like..."

  I smiled.

  “Thought you’d enjoy that. Then Schultz went pink apparently and said, 'well, if it wasn't the goddam Russkis and it wasn't us who took out Roberts, then who the goddam fuck was it?" I couldn't help laughing aloud.

  "So then," continued Mallalieu, an expression of mischief on his face. "Dear old Admiral Wimbourne is supposed to have murmured in his very English way, 'My dear boy, there are other Secret Services you know, and you are, after all, in London..... We do have our own reputation to consider."

  I couldn't help laughing. Mallalieu was a surprisingly good mimic.

  "According to the good Admiral, Schultz called us 'double-dealing, hypocritical sons of bitches,' and a lot more like that.... Apparently, once he realised that his own precious skin was safe and the Russians weren't going to shoot him, he was more concerned about the collapse of his share prices on Wall Street. He was livid."

  "Old Wimbourne's supposed to have gone all wide-eyed and said, 'Why didn't you tell us that Roberts was one of yours, old chap? We thought you'd be grateful. We've been telling your FBI and immigration chaps for years that he was a problem. Haven't they told you? Didn't you know Roberts sponsored most of the drug trade in the United States and he worked for the Russians too? We were astonished when you let him in. I mean, you're not saying that you took this American citizenship nonsense seriously, do you?’ All that kind of stuff. At which point Schultz turned purple and left."

  "Beautiful, beautiful."

  "Anyway, chaos reigned for a week. And in the middle of lt all, things worked out well for UK plc. Although I don't think that it's done the special relationship a lot of good... The Americans threatened to leak the whole story to CNN that it was a dastardly British plot, but the Cabinet Secretary let their ambassador know that if that were to happen, then all Roberts’ links to the Administration and his funds for the last Presidential Election fund would be bound to leak out too.... Inevitable. Corruption in high places. That kind of thing. Tut, tut. So; yes, up to now it all seems to have worked out. A classic deniable operation, all in all. So your efforts over the Roberts business ha
ve not been entirely in vain. A pity about that policeman, though - and the pressmen."

  I didn't want to dwell on the dead copper or the injured cameramen. "I didn't see anything in the newspapers about the Russian or American connections." Both the magazines for the American designed Venus had been made from Russian materials, and if the Forensic Science boys had done their homework they'd have found plenty of evidence that they were made in Russia. They might even have found the Cyrillic writing underneath the magazine spring. Mallalieu had been nothing if not thorough. I was surprised none of that had reached the Press.

  "No, the Russian angle didn't get much publicity." Mallalieu went on. "They slapped a D-notice, or whatever they call it nowadays, on the Press immediately. The 'Telegraph' had a bit about the mysterious Canadian, when they were in their 'Greatest Manhunt in History' phase of headlines. They hinted at a US interest, I remember," Mallalieu smiled.

  I couldn't help smiling, too. "Ah, yes; Mr Hunnicutt, I presume. That was quite a good cover, I thought."

  "Not bad at all," he agreed. "The receptionist remembered you. Her statement was very clear. So did the copper who spoke to you outside the Embassy. You took a chance there, didn't you?"

  "Not really. Some clown had bolted the back gates. I had to go out of the front door."

  He winced. “Yes. You were recorded on the hotel CCTV system by the way. Dreadful pictures. They even sent them to the RAF photo gang at JARIC to be enhanced but they couldn’t get much out of them, even with their computers. Close call?"

  "Very close," I agreed. "It was like one of those training exercises at the Fort. I had to go out through the front door in the end. And then the police turned up at my flat. That was a sickener. Talking of which, thank God I'd taken those pills of yours. They're lethal, by the way."

  He didn't smile, just nodded. "They're not bad, are they? Porton does a good job. Yes, it's the police thing that bothered me. It still does."

  Suddenly an ugly thought struck me. "It bothers me, too. Why did they come round, Colonel?"

  He stopped and stared at the ducks. "I don't know. I really ..."

  I interrupted him. "You sent them, didn't you?" He half turned so that I was staring at him accusingly. "Go on, admit it - you shopped me. Why? To bolster the cover story? Well, it nearly blew it, I can tell you." Two weeks of anger and frustration spilled out and my voice had risen

  I can usually tell when a man's lying, I reckon, unless he's just done a course at RADA, and although he was a good mimic, Mallalieu wasn't going to be offered even a pantomime part with his thespian talents. He looked dumb-struck, his mouth working. His long, saturnine face ripp1ed with ill-concealed emotion. Then he recovered himself. "What utter balls! What bloody nonsense! How dare you?"'

  I calmed him down. "OK, OK. So it wasn't you." He spluttered, still furious. I leaned towards him. "Well then, if it wasn't you, and it wasn't me, then who the bloody hell was it? You're the one with the connections."

  The thought struck home. "Are you saying it wasn't just a routine clamp-down?" He still looked furious.

  "Of course it wasn't. Who else got busted that night?"

  "I don't know." He walked away, head down. "But I'll damn' well check on it when we get back; first thing." His jaw muscles were working like whipcord.

  I followed and we headed towards Admiralty Arch. I tried to piece the jigsaw together. If I was the only person to be visited by the police on the night of Roberts' shooting, then I was in big trouble. And if Mallalieu hadn't tipped off the police AND I was the only person visited, then that could only mean one thing: I'd been fingered. But by whom?

  Mallalieu had clearly reached the same conclusion. "If you were shopped, and I think we're being bugged, then we've got a problem."

  "But who could shop us? Surely the Roberts business was done with someone's approval?"

  "Someone?" He raised an eyebrow.

  "Well - in Whitehall. After all, they gave you the Venus. That's what you said."

  "They did. Indeed they did." He nodded to himself.

  "Then it can't be them," I persisted. Whoever 'they' were. I didn't expect Mallalieu to start talking about his high priced contacts.

  "No, it can't." He was absent, abstracted. "So if it's not SP(E), then who the devil is it, and why the interest?"

  "What's SP(E)?" I asked.

  "Our official contracts branch in Whitehall. Our Lords and Masters. It stands for Special Projects, (Economics). Officially it's a branch of the Bank of England in the phone books, so don't get excited. They’re the ones who dole out these very special contracts. You're not supposed to know that, by the way." He looked at me anxiously.

  "I didn't hear a word." Well, well, well. So old Bill Luxton had been on to something. An idea occurred to me. "Colonel, can I ask you some questions?"

  "That depends."

  "Right; I assume that this SPE office works to the Cabinet Office - correct?"

  "A not unreasonable assumption on your part. Think of them more as a link between the Coordinator and the Joint Intelligence Committee to oversee certain - ah - Specialist Operations."

  "Well, they won't want to rock the boat then, will they?"

  Mallalieu smiled a grim mirthless smile. "Did you ever know anyone in Whitehall who wanted to rock any boat?"

  We turned towards Whitehall. Big Ben bonged away in the background. "So we're being bugged. But who by? And why? It can't be the people who set up the Roberts job. They could hardly want to screw up their own operation: especially if they HAD been able to link me with it." I remembered the policeman, Denness. "No, those coppers nearly picked me up. So it can't be anyone on the Special Ops side of the house. That just wouldn't make any sense." I was guessing, but I knew I was right.

  He nodded, his eyebrows high in surprise. We avoided a gaggle of football-scarfed adolescents showing off loudly to each other in northern accents as they dribbled a beer can along the path, determined to take London by storm. I expect that the big city could absorb them.

  "So it can't be the real Firm making waves. It's not in Six’s interest."

  He stopped and watched me. "Go on."

  "Well, if it's not Six, that only leaves Five or the Branch. Who else is there?"

  He nodded again, slowly. "Yes, I take your point. But if Five wanted to mount an operation against us, they'd have to check with the Intelligence Coordinator. And if we were doing a government job for them they should either warn us through SP(E), or tell them to lay off because we were doing something for them. That's what the Coordinator and SP(E) are for. So I don't see how it could be Five. What you did over Roberts was official – if you can ever say things like that are official. They wouldn’t give us grief for doing their own dirty job for them."

  I wasn’t so sure but kept my mouth shut.

  We walked in silence. We were both thinking furiously. The Guards' Memorial loomed up. The day was beginning to cloud over now, I noticed. I was still trying to absorb Mallalieu's information. Bill Luxton had been right all along; 'Specialist Insurance Services Ltd' was obviously some kind of front for the agencies. Sometimes at least. Christ, I'd been naïve. Inconsequentially, I wondered what the hell I'd really been doing in Iran. I surveyed a lot of past operations which suddenly seemed exposed and obvious. We'd become a deniable arm of government. Come back, Bill Luxton - all is forgiven. Or was I being paranoiac? What would Hepworth make of this?

  "Tell me," said Mallalieu, "This policeman who came to see you that night. What branch was he?"

  "CID, I suppose. Special Branch? I don't know. He didn't say."

  He looked grim. "Why don't we ask Harry Plummer? What if he wasn't CID?"

  I hadn't really thought of that. Come to think of it, I hadn't seen our police liaison officer for a long time. "I've not seen Harry for weeks. Is he still calling?"

  Mallalieu looked up sharply. "I hope so. If not, I've not been told."

  "Do you know if Harry would make trouble for us?"

  "No." Mallalieu was emphatic
. "Why? Do you know of any reason why he should?"

  The answer to that was 'yes'. I did know of a reason. Several in fact.

  Spicer – castrated, now singing high treble: Varley – stabbed and very dead: and lastly, three Brixton muggers - one dead, two crippled. Let alone a dead Jonno Briggs. The question was, did Harry Plummer know about them, too?

  I began to feel very uneasy and a lot of pennies were beginning to drop. I was conscious of Mallalieu staring at me. "Well? Can you think of any reasons for Harry Plummer to cause us trouble?"

  "No," I lied, "But if he did decide to get suspicious, he'd be well placed to finger us."

  "Suspicious? Of what?"

  "Oh, I don't know. Briggs's convenient accident? Maybe he's still worried about his mysterious bagman. Remember him? The ex-SAS little pack. Did anything come of that, by the way?"

  "No, it didn't ..." Mallalieu looked away, distant, thoughtful. "But Plummer never quite cleared that up for me. It just seemed to fade away."

  I was secretly quite content with that, but Mallalieu's brain was obviously racing. "So Let’s think this through… Plummer's not happy. So he tells his boss."

  "The Head of Special Branch?" I queried.

  "Hardly," snorted Mallalieu. Then he stopped. "But, yes, you're right; eventually that's where it would end up. But Harry's got his intermediate bosses. Middle management of the Met. And they don't like groups like us at all. That I do know. They don’t quite know what we do and they think we’re messy and illegal. That I do know. And they've never been keen on Harry's post. It's a bit too…" he paused, looking for the word. "A bit too.... independent...for the Met hierarchy."

  "But wouldn't we be told if Harry was worried about us? What if Harry reports we’re a problem?”