The Vengeance Man

by John Macrae

  I watched the taxis. Nothing: they all seemed to be going somewhere, their signs unlit. I quickly nipped across the road to lean over the parapet and stare at dusk falling over the river. The lights twinkled, reflected in the black water. Out of the corner of my eye I noted a brown Rover involved in a flurry as it sped out of the Blackfriars Underpass before pulling across the traffic stream to drop off a passenger. Then it glided past me, heading towards HMS Discovery, where a winking turn light indicated it stopped briefly again before disappearing towards Westminster.

  I followed it, and began walking again, sauntering in the evening air. I reckoned the brown Rover had dropped off two new tails. Or was I being a bit paranoiac? Well, easy enough to check.

  Suddenly I whirled on my heels and faced back the way I'd come.

  About twenty paces behind me the tall young man with a grey bomber jacket hesitated for the barest millisecond, then continued walking towards me, as he'd been trained. I ran towards him, as hard as I could. He was the man the brown Rover had dropped behind me. At the last minute he moved aside, a look of pure fright on his face as my shoulder cannoned into him, to send him sprawling on the pavement, arms flying. The bomber jacket gaped momentarily and I glimpsed the black transmitter-receiver on its harness. It's the batteries that make the weight. You'd think they'd spend money on lighter sets, wouldn't you?

  "Sorry, chum," I gasped. I put out a hand to help him to his feet and dusted him down. I could feel the hard metal of the radio through his jacket. He was too stunned and frightened to resist. The 'hare' isn't supposed to knock his tail over. I'll bet the radio waves were squealing as the incident was reported by the rest of the surveillance team.

  "'You all right?" I asked. He nodded, rubbing an elbow and staring at me in horror.

  "Hey, I'm really sorry," I pointed back to where I'd just leaned over the parapet and he'd just walked past. "But I think I've dropped my wallet there," and I jogged back to where I'd stopped and leaned over the parapet a moment before. When I got there, I knelt down and made a big play of looking on the ground, pretending to search.

  Through the gathering dusk I could see the foot surveillance operation clearly laid out as they froze to deal with the ultimate problem - an attack on one of the team. But this was a false alarm and while they sorted that out, they all stood out like stepping stones, static islands in a flowing stream of traffic and passers-by. A young cyclist had nearly killed herself trying to stop and find out what was going on. I counted at least six pairs of staring anxious eyes.

  A police siren started, shatteringly close, and a blue Police Transit van wailed past from the Blackfriars end, its blue light flashing, a posse of white faces glued to the windows. That must be the Q vehicle. Of course! A police van in London was ideal - and inconspicuous. It roared away towards Westminster, slowing down about a hundred yards in front.

  The boy in the grey bomber jacket seemed to be having difficulty. He limped around a bit, rubbing his arm and staring across the street where two uniformed policemen, my old friends the courting couple and assorted other types stood looking helplessly across the river of traffic thundering down the Embankment, wondering what the hell was going on, while they waited to cross. Further down the River-- towards Westminster--a man was running towards us on our side of the road, his jacket flapping. It looked like out City business man friend.

  Grey-jacket produced a handkerchief and began ostentatiously blowing his nose. This was obviously some kind of 'I'm OK' sign, because a general air of relief seemed to pass over the little groups sprinkled on the far side of the Embankment. A taxi stopped and two of them got into it - but, a dead giveaway, the 'taxi available for hire' light had not been switched on, so how had they managed to stop it? Meanwhile, surprise, surprise, a brown Rover suddenly sped back up from the Westminster end and slowed to pass me. Again, anxious faces stared out. My little escapade has flushed out at least three mobiles as well, by the look of it.

  I straightened up and, waving my wallet, walked back to Grey jacket. "Thank God I found it. Sorry about banging into you, mate. Can I buy you a drink?" I clapped him on the shoulder.

  A look of horror crossed his face. He was only young, in his early twenties. He couldn't have had much experience. I relished the moment.

  “The least I can do is buy you a beer, or something. I didn't mean to knock into you, but I'd dropped my wallet. And you can't take any risks in a town like London, can you?"

  A strangled gurgle came from him. It's the only way to describe the noise. They hadn't told him how to deal with this on the surveillance training course . I was convinced now that I was seeing some kind of police operation. The Transit control van; the brown Rover; the pair of uniformed bobbies hanging around; they all smacked of a well structured Met surveillance job.

  My new-found friend was recovering his composure. "No, no, I'm all right. Honest." His eyes darted nervously over my shoulder. "I'm very late for an appointment. I really must be going." He was over-compensating, babbling in his desperation. "It's very kind of you, but really," he waved his watch under my nose. "The time, you see. Got to ... you know...”

  "Well, you took a hell of a knock there." I pointed to his trouser knee. The material was scuffed. "And you've ripped your trousers. I'll have to pay for the damage, at least."

  He brushed ineffectually at his knees. his eyes kept avoiding mine and looking behind me where I could see movement out of the corner of my eye. That would be the Fire Brigade, rushing up to support their mate in trouble. I turned and, sure enough, the two bobbies had crossed the road and were almost upon us. It would be a typical Met ploy to use two uniformed policeman as part of a surveillance team; they'd be useful as back up in a crisis - like this.

  "Any problems?" the older copper asked. I'd half expected the old 'hello, hello, hello. what's going on 'ere, then' routine. They both looked hard at Grey-jacket, then back at me. Grey-jacket babbled on a bit about banging into me.

  I spoke up. "No problems, Constable. There's been a bit of an accident, that's all. I knocked our young friend over when I ran back to get my wallet." I spoke slowly and calmly; Joe Public being helpful. "In case someone else nicked it." I pointed, and we all turned to look at the stone parapet ten yards behind. Sure enough, it hadn't gone away. Satisfied, the older policeman turned back to Grey-jacket.

  "You all right, mate? I mean, you don't need any assistance or anything?" He emphasised the 'assistance.'

  "No, no. I'm all right, honestly. Just one of those things. Just lack of communication, I expect," Grey-jacket added, pointedly. The coppers looked at him hard.

  It was then that I realised what must have happened. Grey-jacket's hidden radio had been broken in the fall. Probably the microphone connection had come unplugged. Hence his remark about communication. No foot surveillance team can operate without good two-way concealed radio.

  Delighted with his predicament, and knowing that the police couldn't touch me now that Lamaison had said he'd call the Home Office off, I played the situation to the hilt. "That's it, Officer. Just two ordinary blokes bumping into each other. Happens all the time. I wasn't going to mug him," I laughed. "And do you know what I'm going to do now?"

  That blank, flat expression that only policemen can do came across his face. "No, sir," he said, tonelessly, "What?"

  "I'm going to buy this bloke a drink to say I'm sorry, and I'm going to give him some money to buy himself a new pair of trousers: OK? By the way, what’s your name?"

  The copper's expression changed momentarily to a mixture of disbelief and wry amusement. He glanced at Grey-jacket to confirm my remark.

  The latter shrugged. "I expect it'll be all right," he said. He was almost pleading with the policemen and they all looked at each other with something approaching consternation. The Metropolitan Police handbook of Foot Surveillance didn't contain this one. Hares didn't take their tails to the boozer, let alone offer to buy them new pairs of trousers and ask what their name is. I could have laughed at their faces
. There would be some re-writing of the précis at Hendon soon, I could see.

  "Come on, then," I urged him.

  But Grey-jacket had recovered himself now. "No, I'll take a cab. I'm all right, honestly." He started to move away. He was definitely limping.

  "But what about your trousers?"

  "No, really, forget it." He backed to the edge of the pavement. "I'll just get a taxi."

  "But don't you even want my name and address? I mean, what about the money?"

  "No, don't worry," he babbled," Goodbye." And Grey-jacket scuttled into the gloom just as the streetlights came full on, revealing a loose black cable dangling out of the back of his jacket over his backside.

  I turned to the two Police-men who were standing looking at me. I caught a glimpse of an expression on their faces I'd seen before; from James Bellingham, just before he'd left the firm, and from Harry Plummer that morning when I'd surged up over the desk, pretending to have lost my temper.

  It was that same mixture of mixture of fear and watchfulness. They seemed to be looking at me as if I was some kind of dangerous animal. I wondered how I'd been briefed to the surveillance teams; 'A highly trained ex-SAS man, suspected of several killings; probably a psychopath with no moral scruples, following a mental illness; likely to attack without warning. Possibly armed. Very dangerous. Approach with caution…’ . Was that how I'd been described: as a 'most dangerous man'? I wondered if the police were armed. I'll bet they were.

  I decided to have a bit of fun and give the coppers something to tell the boys when they got back. I moved closer. Interestingly, the younger one flinched slightly and took a step back, but the older Copper stood his ground, regarding me attentively, ready for anything.

  "I'll bet he was listening to one of those Walkman things. That's probably why he didn't see me coming," I said.

  "What makes you say that?" asked the older copper.

  "Well, he must have been. Didn't you see the wire dangling down his back? I'll bet he had a pair of headphones on."

  A ghost of a smile hung round the copper's mouth. For a veteran policeman it was the emotional equivalent of a belly laugh. He decided to join in the charade, "Yes, I did. Very careless, these young lads." He looked me square in the eye. My lad’s got one of those iPod things. Headphones in his ears all the time. Walks around like a tit in a trance most of the time.”

  "Which way were you heading, Officer?"

  He rocked on his toes, regarding me thoughtfully. "We were just patrolling the Embankment, sir." Crafty sod! He didn't want to be committed to going one way, while I went the other.

  "You don't mind if I stroll down with you?" I asked. "I'm heading towards Westminster."

  The young one started to speak, but the leader cut him off. "Not at all, sir. Always glad to chat to the public. Not enough chance of that nowadays...." There was a twinkle in his eye. "Provided that we don't allow it to interfere with our duties, of course."

  "Of course," I agreed, all sincerity.

  And then we began what must have been one of the most bizarre foot surveillance operations ever recorded by the Met and their Security Service colleagues. The cooperative hare strolled along with two of the hounds, making gentle conversation. We talked about politics, a bit of football, bout which I know bugger all, the merits of police houses versus a rent allowance, and home brewed beer. Bob, the older copper, had been in the Navy at one time and brought the chat round to the services. He was all for them, and so, I said, was I.

  "Ex-serviceman yourself, are you?"

  "Yes," I beamed back. How did you guess?"

  "What mob were you with, then?" asked Bob.

  "Pay Corps," I invented shamelessly, "Logistics Corps nowadays.... I was going to be an accounts clerk. I only tried it for a couple of months then they chucked me out for fallen arches. Shame, really. I quite liked all that camping and stuff in basic training."

  "Oh, yeah," said Bob sarcastically, "That must've been hard." He seemed to be on the verge of laughing.

  Lenny, his mate, whose efforts at conversation up to then had been half-hearted to say the least, lapsed into a stunned silence from then on, while Bob and I wrangled peaceably about the relative merits of the Naval Discipline Act and the need for a some kind of national service training for violent young offenders. Surprisingly, he was against it.

  All the time the brown Rover cruised back and forth patrolling like some nervous shark, while the big police Transit van always seemed to be about two hundred yards behind or floating around in front. And doubtless every word we said was relayed from the two coppers' surveillance radios to be followed with disbelief in the mobile control room.

  At one point I stopped and waved at the Transit. "One of yours?"

  Bob glanced up casually. "Yeah; it looks like the control vehicle for Cannon Row." With a flash of humour he added, "I expect they're out testing their radios. They often do that this time of night." I nodded thoughtfully, and we continued our stroll.

  I left them at Cannon Row. They said they were going into the station for a cup of tea. I said I was going to Westminster Underground as I had to meet my aged mother. We both knew we were lying. I even shook their hands when I left. Lenny avoided my eye, but Bob gave me a smile and wished me 'all the best, good luck, and don't go bumping into any more pedestrians'. I grinned back and said something about 'only the ones with softer bumpers.' We parted friends. I liked Bob.

  I'll bet they use the tape recording of that walk down the Embankment as part of the Metropolitan Police Surveillance and the Security Service Training Course to this day. I laughed all the way back to the flat and slept the sleep of the righteous.

  After all, I was in the clear: hadn't Lamaison said so?

  * * *

  The surveillance stayed on me to the end of the week. That puzzled me a bit. I'd have thought Lamaison and Mallalieu would have got the Met to pull it off by now, but it must have been taking longer than they thought. Although it wasn't too obvious, it wasn't in the same league as the high grade gang that had worked me on the Embankment. In fact, sometimes they seemed almost not to care if I clocked them.

  But they never caused me any grief, so I decided not to be cheeky and mess around with the two large blokes stuck in a car outside the flat, or the courting couple who always seemed to be journeying hopefully past, but somehow never arrived. I let them all make their own peculiar contribution to London's street theatre and got on with my life. After all, I reasoned, they would be pulled off soon, so if I didn't bother them, they wouldn't bother me. And they didn't. But I was conscious of them all the time.

  Back in the office I beavered away on Mallalieu's Great Russian Oil Pipeline Security Scheme. It not only looked good, it was good. We couldn't lose. Although our bid wouldn't be the lowest, no-one could match our unique blend of resources. I began to realise why the company's cover was so good for our more questionable activities - the legitimate firm was a rock solid, profitable commercial concern. The Secret Intelligence Vote had got its money's worth out of Specialist Insurance Services Ltd. all right.

  Mallalieu was more relaxed than I'd ever seen him. He even took Andy and me out to lunch one day, which was highly unusual. He was an urbane, amusing host and the occasion was a great success. Not a word was said about my revelations, although I quietly offered a toast to 'Briggs in Valhalla,' to Andy's amazement and Mallalieu's spluttering amusement.

  The good General Sellers came back from his Far East trip, full of plans to open a branch in Singapore now that 'money was so cheap in the Far East' - whatever that was supposed to mean - and Joy and I spent most of our evenings trying to work out how much money we'd got between us and what sort of a house we could afford. All in all, it was probably one of the most relaxed and satisfying weeks I could remember for a long time.

  To my surprise, the surveillance still hadn't been pulled off by the weekend. I joked about it to Mallalieu on the Friday. He'd looked concerned and promised to do something about it for me, but it was still th
ere on the Sunday morning, round at Joy's when I went out to get the papers. I'm an addict of the Sundays. I like to read them all, if I ever get the time. I'd left Joy warm and soft sprawled among the bedcovers, smelling very sexy and muttering sleepily something about she'd make the coffee when I got back as she fumbled to pull the duvet over her bottom. Which, I have to admit, looked very fetching, like one of those Impressionist paintings.

  In a good humour, bundled into a smelly tracksuit, I set out to the shops. The minute I walked out I saw the surveillance team. Someone was certainly in an upstairs window across the road. Lace curtains twitched from a careless hand and shadows moved behind. A minute later the front door opened and a scruffy young bloke appeared clutching a man's bag, looked up and down the street, then walked in front of me on the other side of the road, towards the shops. It was like bloody amateur night, and, frankly, I was irritated. You'd think that they would have made a better fist of it against a conscious hard target like me; because presumably that's what I was categorized as. If they were playing silly buggers with some one like me, then they should at least take it seriously. That sort of sloppiness offended me professionally.

  At the crossroads my obvious front tail crossed over and headed towards the shops. When I got to the corner I dived off to the right and dashed into a bushy garden to see what would happen. Sure enough, twenty seconds later he appeared back at the corner, looking flustered and puzzled. He stared blankly down the side turnings. From behind my hedge I watched him run past me to the next crossroads and look anxiously both ways again, obviously puzzled. Then he began to talk urgently into the little handbag he was carrying, before disappearing down the hill, looking like a man running for the bus.

  I counted twenty, heaved myself out the privet, and went back to the crossroads, to amble slowly back my original destination, the newsagents. By the time I got out with my paper, the street was alive. For this time on Sunday it was like rush hour. At least six people, all total strangers to the area, were on the move, including a young couple who stopped to stare intently at the hand-written advertisements in the paper shop window looking for good homes for young cats and old prams. I caught their eye; they looked away quickly. I was tempted to say 'Looking for something?' but I didn't. I just removed a stray privet leaf from my sweater and walked back to the flat and Joy.