The Vengeance Man

by John Macrae

  "No." Mallalieu was emphatic. "He'd go to his Liaison Committee. If Special Branch smelled a rat – about any of the List X firms -, they'd have to check there first."

  Mallalieu was like a terrier now, in hot pursuit of a theory. "It means that Plummer feels suspicious - so he talks to his boss as Special Branch; the Branch tells the Assistant Commissioner, and the AC would talk to Box 500. At the highest level. Remember it’s Five who give us out List X licence. ."

  "But surely the Box would then liaise with your intelligence coordinator, and you'd get to know? Through this SP(E) gang you were talking about."

  "Yes, I should, theoretically ... unless ... unless ... " Mallalieu was discovering a new thought.

  "Unless what?"

  "Unless it was a criminal matter. Don't forget, Harry Plummer's a policeman first."

  I waffled. "Criminal? Like Roberts? But we did that for them."

  "Yes." Mallalieu made a dismissive gesture; “Roberts wasn't criminal... Not really. That was more national policy…. But Harry would have different orders if he thought a real crime had been committed..." Mallalieu's conscience was revealing itself as an amazingly flexible instrument. After Roberts and Briggs, what counted as a real crime for him? Auschwitz? Or did it depend on who gave the order?

  "Let's hope they don't know."

  Mallalieu pulled a face. We crunched across Horse Guards. "Criminal, criminal," he muttered.

  "What?"

  "Criminal, that's the key. Neither Special Branch nor Box can do anything about deniable ops. They wouldn’t even want to. But…But, but: if they thought we'd gone bent, police bent that is, then everything else makes sense. For example, if they thought we were crooks and were on the take. Ripping them off. They’d investigate us in a heartbeat. And they wouldn't even give us a sniff of what they were up to, if they suspected us. You know that. If it was a Police matter. Don't you see?"

  I felt as though I'd swallowed a lump of lead. Mallalieu had just worked out and voiced my own worst fears. But Mallalieu didn't know about my worst fears or my private ventures in the revenge business. My criminal ventures, which I suddenly realised were very criminal matters. Funny, I'd never thought of them like that before. I'd never thought of myself as a criminal. Everything began to make horrible sense. The police visit, Harry Plummer's speculative eye, Mallalieu's worries about a bugged office: there was a pattern of criminal investigation behind it all that I didn't like. “But wouldn't someone let you know if we were under suspicion? Or at least the Director?"

  Again the emphatic shake of the head. "No. Not if the police thought that the company had gone bent. That's the last thing they'd do if they thought we were on the take or up to mischief. They know pretty well what we do. But if we ever got out of hand they'd crucify us. Through the Home Office; and Five would back them. We're not exactly popular with the main stream boys."

  "Out of hand? You mean like with Briggs?"

  For the first time Mallalieu's confidence faltered. "I hadn't connected with that," he muttered. "I'd almost forgotten about him."

  I hadn't; "Hang on, though. The police came to my flat after the Roberts thing. That was long before we'd ever worried about Briggs. We never mentioned Briggs' accident until well after the Roberts business. It was when I came back to the office; with Andy ... "

  "That's right. You're absolutely right. So why? Why did the police come to you in your flat after Roberts. Why should we be bugged? Why us? Why now? Why?"

  We stood in Whitehall, trying to unravel the puzzle, watching the traffic roar to a halt at the lights and inhaling the stink of diesel fumes. The buildings of government towered over us on every side, dwarfing tourists and traffic alike. "I think," said Tom Mallalieu, "I need a drink."

  I agreed. We both needed a drink; badly.

  * * *

  Silently, Mallalieu and I we walked through the stationary traffic, and silently we stood looking out of the windows of the Red Lion, towards the Cenotaph. The pub was full of chattering tourists, admiring the old wood panelling and talking loudly in a babel of languages.

  Personally I was admiring the spectacular bust of a Swedish blonde who was clutching a pint of Guinness, a look of amazement on her face. Around her stood a giggling circle of Scandinavian-looking women clutching S.A.S. Airlines flight bags. She took a tentative sip of the dark liquid and grimaced. A pink tongue flickered over her lips and she shuddered ostentatiously. The group squealed at her display, and then she caught my eye, smiling back unselfconsciously. The other women followed her eyes and giggled.

  I snapped out of my reverie and looked up to meet Mallalieu's sardonic gaze.

  "Do you want the other half?"

  I shook my head. "I don't think I could cope with it." His eyes followed mine back to the statuesque Swede. "Nor that either." As we pushed out of the door, I noticed that the woman with 'SVERIGE' on her bag was now sharing the Guinness among her friends. Squeals and giggles of delight followed us into the street.

  "All right," I started, taking up the conversation where we'd left off, "How come you're so sure that you're bugged?"

  His face became bleak. "Just some odd things. A funny feeling that people knew a lot about our business. A friend of mine on the Home Office said to me last week that he'd issued a warrant. Something about 'what have you been up to, Tom?' "

  So that was how the Establishment tipped each other off, was it? Well, so much for Whitehall security.

  Mallalieu went on, "But it was something that Lamaison said as well."

  "Lamaison?"

  "He's the Assistant Under Secretary over at SP(E). When I was talking to him yesterday he seemed a bit - distant. Curt almost. Then he mentioned something he couldn't possibly have known about."

  "Oh? What?"

  "He started to talk about a deal we're concocting for the Saudi Arabian National Guard." Noting my puzzled look, he continued, "Even you don't know about this. The Director popped into my office two days ago, just before he flew to Australia. We spent about half an hour chatting in strict confidence about an idea he'd just had. It's all about marketing an anti-kidnapping protection service for some of the Saudi leaders. It's quite a good scheme, but the point is, Lamaison knew the precise figure we'd discussed - 4.3 million pounds."

  "What did he say, exactly? Can you remember?"

  "More or less." Mallalieu screwed his eyes, remembering; " Something about, 'Do you think this is the best time for your group to indulge in high profile activity, even for a juicy £4.3 million contract?'"

  "Are you sure Sellers hadn't told him?"

  "I'm absolutely bloody certain. You see, I phoned the Director last night. He's in Singapore. He not only hasn't talked about the deal to anybody but he couldn't even remember the figure we'd talked about. He thought it as '4 point something' and then plumped for £4.7 million. But Lamaison knew it was 4.3 million. Spot on. And he was right. Now, how did an A.U.S. know the details of our private contracts, eh?”

  The enormity of his charge came home to me as Big Ben solemnly bonged away in the background. "It seems pretty conclusive, doesn't it?" he demanded. “Bugging? Because I haven’t talked to a soul about the deal.”

  “What about the Saudis? They might have mentioned it.”

  “Sellers hasn’t even spoken to them yet. He goes to see Prince Abdul Rahman el Feisal in two days time - in Jedda. And he certainly hasn’t even mentioned any specific sum. That’s why he’s going.”

  “Maybe your international call was monitored. NSA? GCHQ? After all, this Echelon system is supposed to monitor every call..."

  “But Lamaison mentioned the four point three million before I talked to Sellers. If it isn’t a bug in my office, then how the devil did the exact sum leak out? Someone’s monitoring us - somehow.”

  I remained silent, listening to the chimes fading. I had to agree - it did seem conclusive. How the hell did some anonymous Assistant Under Secretary with some obscure links with the Intelligence business know our business? A thought occurred t
o me; "Maybe he picked it up from Six or the banks? You know, like that Matrix Churchill case years back? The government knew all about their business. They bugged them because they were on a sensitive defence contract. Just like us. Maybe it's just routine surveillance - to ensure that we are good boys"

  Mallalieu looked dubious. "Yes. But why suddenly start now?"

  That tallied with another question that was rubbing away at the back of my mind, uncomfortable as a pebble in a shoe. "How long do you think this bugging has been going on, then?"

  "That's the sixty-four thousand dollar question, isn't it?" He looked drawn, "I'm assuming that it's pretty recent."

  "Have you had a debugging sweep done?"

  Mallalieu shook his head. "Not yet; I wanted to talk to you first."

  "But you must have a sweep, Colonel. If you think we’re being bugged. You must."

  "I know; I know." He looked hunted. He looked how I was feeling. Worried.

  "When was the last routine sweep?" I persisted.

  "About three months ago, I think."

  "So Technical Services aren't due for another couple of months." A thought struck me. "Hang on, though, didn't you have your office redecorated last month?

  "Yes, when they did the Director's office and the Reception Lobby. But that was nearer two months ago ... "

  Satisfied, my mind went backwards, browsing over thoughts, looking for ideas. Suddenly I stumbled into an ugly cow-pat of memory. I turned to Mallalieu. I knew how we'd been bugged. "That works service - who did it? The decorating contract, I mean."

  “Well, I don't know; contractors, I suppose.” He flapped his arms. “I mean, they weren't our people. We had to get an outside firm ... " His mind caught up. "Oh, my God, you don't think it was the contractors ... ?"

  "Yes, I do think. That's exactly the time I'd have planted a bug. Decorators. It's a perfect cover. How long were they alone in your office?"

  "Oh, ages. Two days at least. They had plenty of access. My God, how stupid. That's when they must have done it."

  "Have you asked for a anti-bugging sweep since then?"

  "No. But I will now, don't you worry.” It wouldn't be unusual to call for a debugging sweep to check things were clean after any major building work or redecoration in key offices. In fact it would be normal and Mallalieu's request for a Technical Support Section sweep would go unremarked. "I'll ask for a routine post-works sweep." He rubbed his chin. "But why bug us, that's that I'd really like to know? Why?"

  I had a pretty shrewd idea why. In fact I reckoned knew exactly why. Mallalieu's office had been redecorated in the period after I'd taken out the Brixton muggers, but before I'd done the Roberts job. That timing was important; and ominous for me. It confirmed my worst fears, but I could hardly tell Mallalieu that someone obviously suspected that his company was engaged in a little private enterprise. Time to divert his attention. I took a deep breath. "I think I know what's behind it, Colonel."

  "Oh? What?"

  "It's got to be a Home Office tap."

  He didn't seem impressed by my brilliant deduction. "Why? How can you be so sure? I wouldn't have thought that the Home Office gave a fig for us. Intelligence, security, yes. Not Queen Anne's Gate. Why them? More like GCHQ. Or one of our business rivals."

  I was taken aback. It's not often I come up with brilliant pieces of deduction. Particularly deductions designed to divert attention from me. I'd hoped he would at least give it a judicious nod or two.

  I returned to the attack. "Because it all makes sense. Let's assume that CID, the police, have got suspicious about us. We don't know why," I lied hastily. "Let’s say the Jonno Briggs business…”

  He nodded. “Yes, that’s a possibility, I grant you. Go on.”

  “So the cops go and check with their mates in Special Branch, 'cos we're a List X defence contractor and they know we have a Branch Minder from the police - Harry Plummer. "

  Mallalieu was nodding slowly.

  "So," I went on, "Harry would automatically discuss his concerns with his police bosses, and they'd automatically check with Box 500. Why? Because the Box, the Security Service, is responsible for all List X defence contractors and their security. And the Box works for the Home Office, which also controls the police. It’s obvious.”

  "OK. OK. " said Mallalieu. "Yes, of course. MI5. All those ex-Navy deadbeats in X Branch checking companies’ security clearances...." He was nodding firmly now.

  "OK, colonel; but let's assume that they all decide it's a criminal matter. A crime. Nothing to do directly with the Box or with national security. Then they’d have no need to go near the Intelligence Coordinator, or outside standard Home Office procedures. They just wouldn't need to. Because it's a criminal matter, not security. Police. So then the Met asks for a CID wire tap. And who authorises police wire taps?"

  "The Home Secretary," breathed Mallalieu.

  I pounded a fist into my palm. "Right. The Home Secretary or one of his gophers. Who just also happens to control the Police, the CID, the Special Branch and the Security Service, as well. The whole lot. It's an official Home Office tap. Got to be."

  "Or a business rival….”

  I cut him off. “But you said that it was some civil servant who let the cat out of the bag. Laminson or whatever…”

  My God' Mallalieu looked shaken. "That’s right. Lamaison,” he corrected me. “That does all make sense. But that still doesn’t explain is why? That’s the big question - why? What were they suspicious of? Why would they ask for a bugging warrant in the first place? What criminal activities were we supposed to be up to? We’ve not put a foot out of place. Except Briggs. D'you think Briggs was up to something?"

  I glossed quickly over that. "To hell with that, Colonel. How much have they heard on the bug – if there is one? Did they hear the Briggs business--when we decided to fix him for good?"

  "Oh, my God!" He controlled himself. "Right. We'd better start some damage control. First of all, we need to find out which police branch it was that visited you when you were ill in bed..."

  "And who else the police visited that night."

  "Right. That'll give me an excuse to question Harry Plummer. Second," Mallalieu ticked off the points on his fingers, "Use your own contacts to check on the Home Office's list of wire taps. Only the ones issued by the Home Secretary in the last 3 months, in the Central London area; only the UK nationals."

  "Easy. I take it that we 're allowed access to that kind of thing?"

  Mallalieu eyed me sideways. "Perhaps on this occasion you'd better just call in a favour or two: we don't to make it too official at this stage. Can you still do that?"

  That made sense. I nodded. I knew someone.

  Mallalieu was thinking hard. " Good. And if we're not on the official list, at least we know what we're up against, and that either they're holding something back or that bug is someone else's."

  "And third," I butted in, "We put one and two together to see if they add up. If they do?”

  He pulled a face. "Yes. Let's hope that for once, one and two don't make three. Right." He took a deep breath and looked at his watch. "Let's get back."

  "I'll get to Queen Anne's Gate." I'd done the odd job with the Home Office headquarters in my days at MOD and knew how it worked. "I'll make a start. I've got a contact, the HO Liaison Coordinator, and he owes me a favour or two."

  "All right" Mallalieu was decisive. " Have you got anything back at the office that needs...?"

  "No." I looked at my watch; it had been a long lunch. " I'll see you at about four o'clock?"

  We parted. After I'd gone two paces, Mallalieu called back, "Oh, by the way."

  I stopped. "Yes?"

  He smiled a wolfish grin. "Be careful what you say on the telephone. You never know who might be listening!"

  I didn't laugh. I didn't think Mallalieu was very funny.

  CHAPTER 35

  A DOWNTURN in BUSINESS, London

  In fact my sense of humour never really recovered.

/>   Not only did my two quiet weeks end abruptly after that conversation with Mallalieu, but I started to have bad dreams again.

  It's funny; when things are going well, you can absorb one, two or even three or more bad things and deal with them. They're just problems to be put in priority order and solved. And we do. But put those same problems against a potentially insoluble difficulty rolling down the hill, like some ever-growing snowball and even the little problems suddenly become impossible. And if, to cap it all, you can't sleep as well, then life becomes unbearable.

  I couldn't sleep. At three o'clock in the morning, nameless monsters and fears stalked my nights and even the good times exploded in my face. At times it was like after Iran and Kurdistan all over again. Once Joy shook me awake and in the half light of early dawn hung over me, a look of concern on her face. "Are you all right, love? You were calling out. And you're soaked'"

  I shivered, the chill sweat running on my chest. No, I wasn't all right. But what could I say? 'Sorry, dear. I kill people and I'm frightened of the future?' I expect everyone who's worried about their job or the mortgage has felt the same at three o'clock some morning, but for different reasons. At least, half awake and cradled to Joy's breast, the sight of fountains of blood, the clang of cell doors and loss of daylight didn't haunt me. I fell into a fitful doze.

  Mallalieu's fears had been justified. His technical sweep picked up a standard Home Office transmitting device installed behind his desk. He'd left it in place and made a point of rattling his teaspoon nearby from then on.

  I'd had no joy at Marsham Street. I saw Charlie Bremner, who owed me from his time as a Grade 7 attached to the FCO. He'd called for the list. But when he'd pulled the file, there were two blank entries, serials 476 and 477. Both had the word 'ECLIPSED' written against them.

  "What's that?" I'd asked.

  He grunted. "It's the codeword that means they're specially restricted - need to know. Hang on, I'll try to get a release on them." He dialled an internal number, his fat face white and round under the fluorescent light. The tiny basement office consisted of a desk with built-in wood trays, Charlie and a security container. As Charlie weighed 18 stone, it didn't leave much room for me.