The Vengeance Man

by John Macrae

  "You should run an agony column, Jan." Her lips pursed. "Anyway, I'm not settling down to let some bimbo get her hands on my money. I’m too young to die, yet." Her look of disapproval deepened further. "Just give me a buzz when he gets back, will you?" I stalked away, conscious that I'd made an unnecessary enemy. Stupid.

  Mallalieu didn't get back until nearly four o'clock. He smelled of drink and seemed cheerfully relaxed to see me. "Come in, come in. Well, have you sorted out that Briggs business?"

  "Briggs?"

  "Yes, you know. Those Home Office people. This morning."

  So he hadn't been told about my private escapades over lunch. I temporised. "Not quite. I thought we ought to talk about it first."

  "Of course." Mallalieu rummaged through the messages and files on his desk, only half an ear on me. And the files? How are you getting on there?"

  "Files?"

  "Yes, that Operation Abacus stuff. The tender for the oil rig security job. Any progress?"

  "No, not yet, Colonel."

  He grunted, his mind on a 'while you were out' list of telephone messages and swinging towards his e mails. "Well, stay with it. We'll need to get it right ... " He trailed off.

  I took a deep breath. This was going to be more difficult than I'd thought. I hesitated. "Colonel, about that visit from the Home Office this morning ... the CIT."

  He didn't look up. "Uh-huh."

  "Well, it's not as simple as it looks."

  "Oh, yes. Why's that?"

  Well ... "

  He still wasn't paying attention. "Come on - get on with it."

  "Well, I think that they may have had a reason for picking on us."

  If I'd expected a reaction, it didn't appear. He grunted irritably. "Of course they did: Briggs. They were after that Briggs business."

  "No, not Briggs."

  He still didn't look up, but went on rummaging away at some papers, nearly knocking over the coffee cup on to his keyboard. He swore softly.

  "I think they had another reason for coming to see us and I know why they bugged us."

  His eyebrows went up and he stood upright. Then he looked pointedly at the window sill.

  "It's all right," I went on. "It's been taken out. I've crunched it. While Jan was out. They can't hear us any more."

  The eyebrows climbed higher. He still didn't say anything. For the first time I had his full attention. I walked over to the window and pulled out a dull silver capsule, the size of a watch battery, attached to two wires. It hung loose, the marks of the needle-point pliers that had crushed it flat glittering bright. A sprinkle of white plaster dusted the deep blue carpet.

  "I see." He walked over and pulled it hard. The wires snapped and he stared down at the crumpled disc, flat in his hand. "May I ask why?"

  I took a deep breath. This wasn't going to be easy. "I think it was put in to get at me: not Briggs."

  His reaction startled me. "A pity. It's a pity they're not after Briggs. It would make things a lot easier." He walked to his desk and slung the bug onto the pile of papers. "Why would they be interested in you?"

  "Because I'm the guy they're looking for. I’m their phantom bloody Vengeance Man."

  “I know.”

  CHAPTER 39

  CONFESSIONAL

  “You know?” I was incredulous

  “Well, let’s say I suspected, if you like.”

  I sat down with a thump. Mallalieu knew I was the Vengeance Man? How? Since when?

  He slowly turned his head towards me , like a tank turret traversing. He stared at me for what seemed like minutes and was probably seconds.

  "So it really was you, they were looking for, all this time eh? Is that what you're telling me?" Mallalieu's calm shook me.

  I said nothing.

  "You idiot," he went on in a reasonable conversational voice. "What on earth made you do it?"

  "Do what?" I was floundering. He was treating it as if I'd said that one of the secretaries was pregnant and would be away for six months. No, he'd be more pissed off about that. Much more.

  "Do those things that the police were talking about. I'm assuming that's what you're saying? I presume you're saying that it really was you who did those things? When they first came I assumed it was Briggs they were ferreting about for. Or have I misunderstood you?"

  Again I said nothing. He stood and stared at me.

  "Why? What on earth possessed you to go doing stupid things like castrating that bloody inadequate - Spencer, whatever his name was ..."

  "Spicer," I choked.

  "Spicer, that's it. Whatever for?"

  "And the muggers," I added to his list. "Don't forget those three muggers."

  "Of course." His eyes widened. "Of course. That had to be someone like you. I should have guessed." He nodded, stared away, unseeing. "No wonder they've been giving us grief..... Why?" He shook his head. "Why?"

  “Why what?”

  “Why did you do such bloody stupid things?”

  "Because I wanted to get back at them." It came out in a rush.

  Mallalieu was amazed. "Whatever for?"

  "Revenge. Getting my own back. Not my own; clearing off some people's debts. Someone has to stand up for people."

  There was a long pause while he looked at me. I felt foolish, uncomfortable. "Revenge, eh?"

  "That's it; revenge." It sounded pathetic in the big, high-roofed office.

  “But revenge for what?" he insisted. "What for?" He paused, shaking his head. "Who do you think you are? God? Do you feel you've some kind of divine mission? Are you mad?"

  "No, I'm not mad: but someone's got to put things right. Pay off the debts. I had the qualifications, that's all. And I'm not potty." I couldn't help but laugh.

  He looked hurt, affronted. "Well this is no bloody laughing matter, I can tell you." He began to pace up and down. "So you've got the qualifications, have you? And you took it on yourself to even the score, is that it?"

  "That's right. They all deserved it, they were all slags."

  "And that makes it right, does it?"

  "Why not? Ask the voters. After all, you're the one who gave me the big spiel about democracy. Or have you forgotten?"

  "Yes, but cold blooded killing, murder, maiming people.."

  "Not people, Colonel. Scum. Perverts; people like those muggers; Spicer, Roberts. I did the Roberts thing for you and a lot of innocent people...You’re hardly in any position to moralise, let’s face it? Are you?”

  He looked at me and cut me off. "You amaze me. You of all people. But Lamaison did warn me." He sighed.

  "Lamaison?"

  "Yes. He warned me a long time ago - before the Briggs Business - he told me that you were a potential risk. The psychiatrist said you would be unstable. I told him he was wrong.” He shook his head sadly. "I should have known." We stood silent, glumly contemplating his own poor judgement. It almost made me feel sorry for him.

  He gazed blankly out of the window, then knelt down and prodded the hole where the bug had been. More plaster dust trickled down. "What made you start?"

  His question, addressed to the hole in the wall, surprised me. He stood up, brushing the white powder from his hand.

  "I just felt that someone had to do it. "

  He nodded. He was still taking it all in. "You felt that someone had to. . . "

  "Had to punish the ones who thought they could get away with it. Balance the books. For the little people they'd hurt. The police couldn't touch them, remember. Like Spicer; the paedophile..."

  "An eye for an eye? Is that it?"

  “It was his balls. But, yes: if you like." It sounded trite.

  He didn't sneer or say anything clever; just nodded, comprehending.

  I'd expected anger, even rage. I wasn't prepared for his calm appraisal of the problem. It was un-nerving. But Mallalieu haven't gone as far as he had without learning to deal disaster calmly. "Who the hell do you think you are?" he said in a sad voice. "Bloody St. Joan?"

  I made no answer. Th
ere really wasn't much I could say.

  There was a long pause. The silence hung heavy in the office. Mallalieu walked around touching things, straightening pictures, and saying nothing. Eventually he rounded on me, and continued in the same conversational tone, "You realize that, if what you say is true, that you are guilty of very serious criminal offences, don't you?"

  My mind was taken up with Security, Intelligence and the whole Special Operations world. "Criminal?"

  He looked surprised. "Of course. Murder, GBH, assault, theft even? I'd say that castrating someone, removing their testicles without their consent, counts as Actual Bodily Harm at least, don't you? Perhaps even grievous bodily harm?" He added dryly. "And as for shooting those muggers," his voice trailed away. "Psychopathic... Bloody psychopathic..." He shook his head. “They’ll crucify you…”

  It was time to bring Brother Mallalieu back to reality. I didn't want him saying things we both might regret on some wave of misplaced moral high-mindedness. After all, he was as guilty as I was. "Yes, nearly as bad as arranging Briggs' death for you."

  He didn't look put out at all. "No. What you've done is far worse."

  "Worse!" I exploded. "Worse?!"

  "Oh, yes." He cocked his head on one side. "When you killed Briggs, you were acting on my orders. It was a necessary act."

  The sheer effrontery of his reply took my breath away. "A necessary act ? Orders? Now who's playing God?" My voice had risen.

  "I'm not playing God." He looked angry, too. "But I act on authority, the Charter..."

  "Authority? Charter? What the hell are you on about? "

  He sighed. "Oh, dear, oh dear, oh dear. I thought you of all people had the wit to realise what we're all about here. Didn't Bill Luxton tell you?" He didn't wait for an answer. "If I order someone... " he searched for a less distasteful word, "To be dealt with – terminated - I at least, act with some kind of authority. But you ... "

  "Dealt with?" I was angry now. "Terminated? Is that what you call it? Is shooting Roberts 'terminating' him? And the copper? And the reporter?" He stared at me, pale but calm. I warmed to my theme. "And Briggs? Is 'terminating' him all right? Because you say so?"

  "But my dear boy, don't you realise ... "

  "Realise what?!" I roared. "So it's all right for you to order Lord Roberts, one of the most famous people in the world, killed, together with a London policeman on duty thrown in for good measure, not to mention a crippled hack and a couple of innocent bystanders and that's OK, is it? It's even OK for you to murder - yes, murder -," I spat out, "Briggs, one of your own men in cold blood to save your own skin, but when I take out some of the... the filth, the bloody scum of society, you come back at me all high minded. Eh? Don't you bloody talk to me about charters, Tom Mallalieu. You haven't got a leg to stand on. You're as guilty as I am. We did your dirty work for you. On your orders!" I stopped, chest heaving, shaking with rage.

  He stood staring at me, spots of anger in his cheeks, lips compressed.

  When he spoke, an acid note was in his voice. "Right. Well, now you've finished that moving and obviously deeply felt little outburst, let me make you aware of a few things. One: yes, you did kill Briggs on my orders. But then I am authorised to take certain action against... " he paused, hunting for the right euphemism; "against persons deemed prejudicial to the Crown. But not off my own bat; by the personal authority only of the Prime Minister, the Intelligence Coordinator and counter-signed by the Attorney General of the day." I must have started. "Yes. That surprises you, doesn't it? But it's true, nonetheless ... "

  "But you said Briggs ... "

  "Oh, yes, I said a lot of things about Briggs at the time. You don't think I'd tell you everything, do you? For your own sake as much as anything. It’s much better for all concerned if people think they're up to their neck in some kind of a criminal conspiracy, it's much easier to make sure they keep their mouths shut, isn't it? For ever."

  "But I was the one who suggested that we ... "

  "Get rid of Briggs? Yes, you did. And I was most grateful for it. But he'd have had to go, anyway. You only spoke first. We already had the authority from the PM. He was a most dangerous individual.

  I was puzzled. Briggs the dangerous buffoon, Briggs the dangerous loose cannon; these I could understand. But Briggs as a really dangerous threat was difficult to comprehend. Mallalieu looked sharply at me.

  "Yes: I thought that would surprise you. Briggs was a plant. We still don't know who he was working for. They worked him over for two days in that flat and he still wouldn't come clean. They think – no-one knows – that he was some kind of terrorist plant.”

  “Terrorists? Al Qa’ida? Muslim extremists?”

  “We really don’t know. He had some links with them, out in Basra, we discovered. Shi’a, Iranians. But he was also up to his neck in Animal Rights at one time. The nasty end of the ALF. That we did get out of him.” He shook his head. “We never did find out what he was really up to. Or working for. But he was certainly a plant. No doubt about that. Collecting all kinds of stuff. You should see what they found in his flat. Bomb-making, propaganda for ALF attacks and Fundamental Islam…. Weird. A weird mix. Even stuff nicked from your office.” He smiled without any humour at me. “ Yes… he was even running a file on you.”

  I was speechless.

  “So you see, he had to go. PM’s orders….”

  "You mean when I went to collect him and drug his milk. . . "

  Mallalieu dismissed me with a wave of his hand. "Yes, yes, I know you thought you were doing something secret. But we had been trying to make him tell us. How on earth do you think we keep to a man like that under house arrest? Because that's what it was. I mean, just think about it a little…"

  I was silent, digesting the enormity of what he was saying.

  Mallalieu went on. "Yes, he was planted by someone all right. Roberts? Moscow? The Americans? Terrorists? Even ALF fanatics? We'll never know. He never talked. Maybe he wasn't working for anyone. It’s a mystery. Fortunately, he blew it that night he went over the top in the pub. He even gave us a clear chance to get rid of him - by an accident, as it happened, so we didn't compromise our source. You only did your duty when you ensured his little accident." He smiled. “That was well done , by the way.”

  "You mean, it was ...” I groped for the word; “legal?"

  He shrugged. "Yes, if that's the word you want to use. 'Authorised' is better, I suppose."

  I was stunned.

  "And as for the Roberts job, that was a cast-iron act of national policy. Christ, man, I told you that at the time. What do you think I am, some kind of wild man rushing around ordering killings at random?"

  It was all beginning to sink in. I tried to defend myself. "So it's all right for you to kill on behalf of the Prime Minister... "

  "And with the approval of the Cabinet Office Intelligence Coordinator and the Attorney General. ... "

  "Yes, all right, on behalf of some cosy little Whitehall secret committee, but if I do it on behalf of society, that's wrong? Is that it?"

  He looked surprised. "Of course. That's precisely the point. You've made a complete arse of yourself. Stupid. Moronic."

  I tried again, but I could feel the fight going out of me, like water drying on a hot pavement.

  He went on. "So, one: I'm authorised to act on behalf of the PM to deal with people like Briggs when there's no other way. Secondly: we do it under the Charter that's cast iron and goes back to 1940. You have to take tough decisions in war time and some bits of The Defence of the Realm Act were apparently just too useful to be let go in 1945. Even by the ‘New Jerusalem’ of our idealistic socialist friends. Third, and last: none of this gives you carte blanche to go around meting out your particular and idiosyncratic brand of half baked citizen's justice to the undeserving poor or whoever else you happen to have a personal grievance against at the time. Thank God I didn't give you some passing offence. What would you have done to me? Cooked me over a slow fire? Cut bits off me...? Eh?
" His fluent contempt was magisterial, crushing.

  I was stunned. "This Charter. Why didn't you tell me?"

  "Tell you? Why should I? Because you didn't need to know, that's why. Surely you of all people understand that? Good God! You did your job just as effectively when you didn't know. More effectively. There was more security that way. That's why I went to such lengths to talk you round over the Roberts job; to make sure you were sound."

  I didn't like that past tense. Suddenly I was feeling very left out, exposed. But suspicion gnawed at me. Was Mallalieu just covering up, just protecting himself with good story? Was what he said true? It was very pat.

  "Where is this wonderful charter of yours, then?" I snapped. "How do I know you're not just giving me a load of bull to save yourself? How can you prove it?"

  He stared at me, then shook his head. "You don't really think I'm going to pull some fancy codeword document covered with red stamps out of a security container here and show you, do you? Whose signature do you need to see, the Queen's ? King George the Sixth and Winston Churchill’s ? With big red sealing wax blobs?" he sneered.

  "Well, who do I have to see to know you're telling the truth? The PM?"

  "Don't be so stupid." He sighed heavily and sat down. "Jesus Christ," he muttered, "Jesus Christ. Look," he went on, in a reasonable tone, "I don't have to prove anything to you. But you've been a top grade operator in your time, outstanding even. You had a hard time after Iran and so the system looked after you. Or tried to. Now you've become a solid, dependable Director of Specialist Operations. Everyone in the Service thinks highly of you. It's not your fault that you weren't privy to the real reasons behind the Firm, but you didn't need to be. And now you've gone and blown it, by the most stupid, idiotic ..., " he trailed off. "You've ruined a good career," he ended sadly.

  "Career? What career? Working for a shady agency, half private, half God-knows-what? Some career; it's hardly as if I was a mainstream SIS officer, is it?"

  He looked appalled. "But you are, of course you are."