The Vengeance Man

by John Macrae

  Thank God she'd made the coffee; the whole thing was beginning to give me the creeps.

  The buggers were still keeping an eye on me. But why?

  CHAPTER 42

  SURROUNDED?

  First thing on Monday, I tried to find out why I was still being tailed.

  I had to see Mallalieu. I tried to talk to him first thing, but he was out for most of the morning. When he came in, he sent for me immediately.

  "Nice tie," he grunted sarcastically. I had the grace to look embarrassed. Joy's little gift from Tie Rack was, frankly, a bit flashy for my taste. Well, I ask you: little Dumbo elephants on a bright red background. Still, Joy liked it, and said it would brighten up my 'dull old insurance office.' I'd said it was a good job that I didn't smoke cigars like Bill Clinton, because then she could have given me a special cigar to take to the office, and the whole thing had degenerated.

  "It was a present," I explained to Mallalieu, who only raised his eyebrows and said, "You'll be wearing knitted cardigans soon the way you're going on."

  He ran a hand over his hair.

  "Look; I don't know how to put this," he began. I tried to tell him that the surveillance hadn't gone away and I was worried, but he wouldn't listen and waved me to a chair. "We're having a bit of a problem with the Home Office."

  "Don't I know it," I replied. “The buggers are staked out everywhere. They're beginning to ruin my social life."

  "Yes. It's not been easy. The fact is, they're very reluctant to call it off. They still want to talk to you."

  "Why? I thought you and Lamaison had sorted it all out.'

  "We're trying to." Mallalieu looked evasive, "But it's not working out as we hoped."

  "Not working out? What do you mean?"

  "We can't seem to...ah ... call the dogs off..."

  I was appalled. If those two couldn't call off the dogs, then who the hell could? I was back to square one. "But isn't there anything you can do?"

  "We're trying. If it's any help, your case is with the Home Secretary at present."

  "Jesus. As high as that?"

  "As high as that." Mallalieu looked grim. "And it may go even higher."

  "I don't see how it can."

  He looked at me from under his eyebrows. "Think about it."

  I thought. "The Prime Minister?" I found it hard to believe. And he probably wouldn't be soft on my particular crimes. In fact he certainly wouldn't. That would ruin his nice 'Mr Squeaky' image. Suddenly my idyllic life was beginning to fall apart.

  "And that's not all," Mallalieu went on, plucking a piece of red-bordered paper from his trays. "The CIT have asked to question you formally, on Wednesday. Under caution. "

  For a moment I was stunned. My voice sounded strained to my own ears when I spoke. "Question me? Under police caution? The Combined Interrogation Team? Formally? What the hell does that mean?"

  "Interrogate," supplied Mallalieu gently. "They want to officially interrogate you, on behalf of the Police and the Security Service. Take statements. You know what that means."

  I cupped my head in my hands. The office was quiet, except for the clock ticking. I remembered other times in that room; drinking coffee with Mallalieu after I came back from Paris; taking that nice, rather plump little typist into the corner after last year's office party and feeling under her skirt while she giggled, ‘someome’ll come in!’ as she wriggled her hips against me… collecting the Venus gun before the Roberts job; and the savage secret pleasure in crushing the bugging device with needle-nose pliers that lunchtime. Now the room suddenly seemed like a trap. I felt caught, enmeshed in a sticky web of the past, the present and an uncertain future. I looked up. Mallalieu was standing by his desk looking down at me with an odd expression on his face; if I didn't know him better, I'd have called it compassion.

  "What am I going to do?" I asked.

  "There is an answer, and it's one that the CIT and the Home Office can't do a damned thing about." He thought hard. "If you're not in the country, they can't touch you."

  "But I can't just do a runner. Like a fugitive or something. No. "

  "No-one's asking you to run away. But if you're away doing a job then they can't touch you."

  "Until I get back. They'll just be waiting for me."

  "Not at all. If you're away for two to three weeks, that'll give us a better opportunity to square things. By the time you got back, it would all be over. It's just a question of time, of keeping you out of the way for a bit until we can sort out a proper answer with the Whitehall machine."

  “But where can I go? We've no jobs on that I know of."

  "Ah well, it just so happens that I might be able to help you. You see, the minute I knew that this police nonsense was continuing, I had a word with William Lamaison. He's been extremely helpful." I'll bet, I thought. "Well, there is one little job ... "

  "Where?"

  "It's hot and dry - east of Suez; your part of the world ... "

  "I'll take it," I interrupted. "Kurdistan again, eh?"

  "It's not Kurdistan. But that's all I can tell you until I know your decision. Do you want to do it?”

  "Too bloody right! For how long?"

  He looked thoughtful. "At least thee weeks - possibly a little longer."

  I thought hard about it. I'd miss Joy; but survival was more important at this stage than a month's separation, I calculated.

  "Great. I'm your man, Colonel. What's the job? When can I leave?"

  "Well, I'm not going into all the details now." He went over to his security container and took out a grey security box. I watched in silence as he spun the combination lock through its three digit sequence to open it and reveal a red file with a yellow cross on the cover. He flung it onto my lap. "Just read that."

  The file contained only three pieces of paper. The first was an American signal in grey printer text, covered with red stamps and code words I'd never seen before. I had to read it twice before it made any sense. American signals jargon seems designed to obscure, not illuminate.

  "Afghanistan?"'

  "That's right." Mallalieu's manner was brisk. "That's a CIA request to do a job. Helping a friendly government; well, the lesser of two evils, I suppose. It's straightforward enough, but it needs to be done by a Brit. A Yank would be too vulnerable and obvious in the Pakistan border regions. It appears that you made a big hit with the Yanks after Iran. In fact, one of their Regional Controllers asked for you by name."

  I looked at the signal again. Sal. Good old Sal. It had to be him. He had sworn he was DIA, not CIA... Slippery sod.

  “Right. It needs someone to go in, meet up with a cache of arms, run them forward to the official customers at an RV, collect a package, then come out.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Straightforward stuff for you. It's a five night stand, at most. The aim is to give discreet support to the regime against the Taliban… …"

  "What sort of arms?"

  "Mixed batch. Mainly handheld anti-bunker missiles... God knows what they want those for…"

  "How many ?"

  Two hundred." I whistled in disbelief. "Don't worry; there'll be a company of mountain porters to move them for you. I don’t think that they expect you to back-pack them one at a time," he smiled, a tight, mocking smile.

  I was uneasy. "Why can't the Afghan regime just collect them themselves? Why do we have to provide somebody? Surely CIA are all over Pakistan?"

  "Because they don't know where the cache is, that's why; and it's important that the arms are seen to be a discreet gift from the West, but not any...official....delivery. It's very political, I'm afraid. They'll probably sell them for hard cash, anyway. Secondly, we must have a trustworthy white face to meet their Head Man and take their next order." He made it sound like a Chinese restaurant.

  I pointed to a flaw. "But I don't speak Afghan... "

  "Pashto," corrected Mallalieu. He looked down at a bit of paper. "You don't need to. Your background is perfect. You've got conversational Farsi from your Kurd training.
That's understood well enough there. Your guides will be English-speaking Pakistanis and Baluchis. And the man you're going to meet probably speaks better English than you do: he's got a second in PPE from New College, Oxford. Was some sort of junior minister before the Taliban took over. Fought the Russians in the eighties, and came back into power when the Taliban were kicked out… doesn't intend to hand it all over again to some raggy arsed bunch of fundamentalist extremists. The NATO people love him, according to this."

  Silent, I returned to the file. The second enclosure was a photocopy of a short letter from the Coordinator, ordering Lamaison and SP(E) to take on the American request, using ' a suitably qualified individual'. The third was a terse memo from Mallalieu acknowledging the job and ending, 'the task will be carried out by a member of the Special Operations Group.' I probed the job for more flaws.

  "Surely this is a straight SAS job?"

  “Uh-uh: this is not for the Regiment. They're too well known nowadays. Ministers want no SAS or official MOD involvement. The SAS is blown nowadays. There've been too many silly books, too much publicity. Everyone in the SAS is working on their next book or claiming that they really were a member of Twenty Two to con a publisher. And since that Libyan fiasco . . . No, the SAS has got silly. The Press is even paying narks living in the houses outside their barracks a weekly retainer now to report on every vehicle going in and out. No, this has really got to be deniable."

  "What about opposition?"

  He shrugged. "What about it? They can't seal a border like that. As far as the regime is concerned, it's a thousand mile flank; and an open one at that. By day the government and the Peacekeeping Force clatter around in helicopters and drive along the roads in their APCs. At night all the gollies huddle in the mosques and lecture each other from the Koran. But the countryside in the North West is open house for the dissidents after dark." He sounded convincing. It bore out what I'd read both in the press and in the DIS's summaries. "Well?" He looked questioningly. "Do you want to take it on or don't you?"

  I rubbed my chin. It was a bit out of my line, but anything that got me out of the country had to be good at present. "How far do we have to go? In Afghanistan, I mean?"

  "About eighty miles, I understand. Forty in, forty out. You'll need your hiking boots, once you're taken up from Kabul. It's a bit hilly. We'll fly you out to Pakistan business class; you can shuttle into Kabul from there. After that it’s Landrover and your feet." Again a flicker of a smile.

  Frankly, the whole thing sounded dodgy. but what choice did I have? Stay here and take my chance with the Combined Interrogation Team and the Metropolitan Police with the wind up their kilts? No bloody chance. That was a no-win option whichever way you looked at it. And even if it did all go sour, and the worst came to the worst, at least I would be out of the country.

  At least I could trust Mallalieu to keep me out for as long as it took. I had friends in Hong Kong and I knew people in the Gulf and Australia if I had to run. Hell, it was obvious. I had no option. I had to do it. "OK, I'll do it. When do I leave?"

  "Tomorrow. You'll fly out from Gatwick at nine o'clock tomorrow night."

  " Tomorrow? That's a bit quick." I was wondering what I was going to say to Joy.

  "Do you really want to be around on Wednesday morning when the Met stops by for a cosy chat?" I shook my head. He had a persuasive way with words, did Colonel Tom Mallalieu. "Well then," he went on. "You turn over your desk to Andy today, then get your kit sorted out tonight. I'll brief you properly at eleven o'clock tomorrow."

  What kit do I need? What about my cover?"

  "Standard Iran-type stuff. You'll be staying at the Islamabad Hilton until you go in. If anyone asks, you're an insurance risks assessor. Treat it Standard Operating Procedure, absolutely normal. Straightforward civvy kit for the hotel, hill walking kit for the trek."

  "Money?"

  "No problem. Jan and Doreen will do all your tickets and stuff this end. You'll be on standard expenses throughout. Morgan Stanley and Citibank no limit gold cards. US registered. You’ll take a spare US passport. Can’t remember the name. Bottom of your bag job.” He smiled. “The Americans are not the only ones who can play at deniable ops, eh? Plan on being away for three weeks and we'll extend by e-mail if necessary. Now, stop fussing and get yourself sorted out. We'll go into all the details at the briefing tomorrow."

  I went to the door. "What will you tell the CIT? On Wednesday, I mean."

  His wolfish grin re-appeared. Apart from the wrinkles round the eyes, he looked about twenty years younger. "I'll tell them you're away on work of national importance, doing a bilateral job for the Americans on the express order of the Prime Minister. OK?"

  "Thank you”. I said, “that'll do nicely," and went out to clear my desk.

  * * *

  I got a shock that evening. I'd left work early to pack my case and a travelling bag. It didn't take long. I've done it before. But I needed a bit of spare time, before Joy arrived at eight o'clock, to sort out the lock up garage. I wanted to dump my guns and some other odds and ends I keep for insurance. You can't be too careful.

  The minute I walked in, I knew I'd been nobbled. The block hiding the guns had been moved and the package behind had been disturbed. I checked the door lock and noticed some fresh scratches bright on the paint. Fighting down a feeling of rising panic, I checked the other bits and pieces I keep stashed away. They'd been disturbed too. I'd been turned over.

  I left it as it was and locked up, trying to think out what it all meant. An expert search wouldn't have left such obvious traces; but on the other hand, a criminal, rummaging through my gear in a hurry looking for something to nick, would have left a real mess - and why had nothing been taken? No; the only conclusion was that I'd been meant to find out. Which only left one interpretation: someone, somewhere was trying to put pressure on me. Part of the softening-up process for Wednesday? I looked around the quiet little close with its lock-ups and scruffy dustbins. There was no sign of surveillance: but then I'd gone to some lengths to slip out of the flat to dodge them. For all I knew I could even be on candid camera at this moment. It would be sensible to hide a low light time lapse CCTV to stake out a static pitch like this. I know that that is just what I would have recommended for the job.

  I walked slowly back to the flat. If they knew where the lock-up was, they probably didn't even need to follow me. They'd got all the evidence they needed. A thought occurred to me; hell, if Lamaison wanted to do the dirty on me, he'd got a full confession already. They'd got me sewn up tighter than a shark's backside at fifty fathoms, and that's watertight. I had no chance, and no choices left. It was get out or go down.

  Gloomily, I let myself into the flats. Almost absent-mindedly I waved to a couple of what looked like Special Branch heavies sitting in a car on the yellow lines outside and one of them gave me an ironic half-salute in return. Christ! It had got to that stage; they were confident enough to be cheeky about it. What a mess ... the sooner I got away from all this, the better.

  Joy took the news of my trip badly. Something in my attitude must have communicated that this was no ordinary job. Maybe it was the fact that I didn't know when I'd be coming back. We went to bed early and didn't sleep a lot. Most of the time we talked, and although we didn't make any specific plans, we were both aware of a sense of foreboding for the future.

  In the early hours I must have dozed off, for I awoke to find Joy standing by the bedside, her hair dark down her back, two mugs of coffee in her hands. I don't know how long she'd been standing there. As she bent down to put my mug down the dressing gown fell open to reveal a breast, marble white against her tan, with those wonderful soft, smooth nipples. I reached out and cupped her gently, feeling the silken warmth hang heavy in my hand. "You're awake, then?" She put down the other mug and turned to kiss me. It was an awkward, nose-bumping kiss. To my surprise, her face was wet with tears. I put up a hand to stroke them away. "Why?" I asked. "There's no need to cry."

  But she
just clung to me, silently weeping as I cradled her sprawled half across my lap and chest, watching a cold grey dawn steal in through the curtains, while her tears made a cold damp patch on my shoulder, and the coffee slowly stopped steaming in its mug.

  Joy insisted on making love one more time before we got up. It was a brief, hurried affair, not at all like our normal love-making. She rode over me on top, virtually ignoring me, seeming to take a fierce inward pleasure only for herself in a way she'd never done before. At the end she brought her knuckles up to her mouth and wailed, mouth open, eyes screwed tight shut; then she burst into tears and lay back, huge, slow tear drops running heavily down the side of her face. I was baffled and worried. This was outside my experience of women.

  I tried to console her and eventually she stopped crying. Then she just lay there, silent, smiling a private smile and hugging herself, holding the emotions in tightly as she squeezed her arms across her chest, while the Boyce Symphonies played in the dawn. She'd taken off the other music to put it on specially. I felt chilled and puzzled, lying there watching her dreamily contemplating the ceiling with that air of feminine mystery that wrapped her tight, excluding me and the rest of the world.

  Finally, when I started to get up to have a shower, she reached up and pulled my head down to kiss me. It was full, soft kiss and I felt my puzzlement and irritation at her attitude fall away until she pulled back and looked up. "I wish I could have your baby. Now." My shock must have been visible, "Your face," she laughed. 'You should see it!"

  "But why? I thought you didn't want .. "

  "Never mind why." She eyed me, head on one side, amused. "Let's face it, you'll never really understand women, will you, love? Let's just leave it at that. But I do love you; I think I always will."