by Iain Banks
"What's the problem, Mum?" I lift a pencil from the desk and start gnawing the end.
"My stupid husband! Haven't you been listening?"
"Yes, but what —?"
"He wants to buy a farm! A farm! At his age!"
"What, is it a sheep farm?" I ask, because she's phoning from New Zealand and I understand they aren't short of a sheep or two out there.
"No! It's for… angoras. Angora… goats or rabbits or whatever it is they get the stuff from. Cameron, he's just getting impossible. I know he's not actually your father but you seem to get on all right and I think he listens to you. Look, sweetheart, could you come out and try and talk some sense into him, because —?"
"Come out there? Mum, for goodness" sake, it's —»
"Cameron! He's driving me up the wall!"
"Look, Mum, just calm down…"
And so begins another of my mother's marathon phone calls in which she complains at length, depth and breadth about some potential new business venture of my stepfather's she is certain is about to ruin them both. My stepfather Bill is a rotundly fit, quietly amusing Wellingtonian who retired from the used-car business; he met my mother on a Caribbean cruise three years ago and she moved out to New Zealand a year later. They live perfectly well off pensions and investments but Bill does occasionally express a hankering for getting involved in a business again. These schemes never come to anything, and usually turn out not even to be serious commercial propositions in the first place; as a rule Bill just says something quite innocent like "Oh look, you can pick up a fast-food franchise in Auckland for fifty thousand," and my mother instantly assumes he plans to do just that and then lose the lot.
She gibbers on while I browse the wires on the terminal, idly scrolling Reuters and PA to check on what's happening. This is pretty much an instinctive journo-reaction, and fully compatible with the equally programmed dutiful-son «hmms» and «mmms» I'm feeding my mum at intervals during her monologue.
I get her off the phone eventually, reassuring her that Bill is not about to sink all their savings into some decrepit hill farm and that — as ever — the answer is to talk to him about it. I promise to come and visit next year, probably. It takes a few attempts to say goodbye — Mother is one of those people who'll wish you well, say goodbye, thank you for calling or for being there when she called, say goodbye again and then suddenly tear into some whole new conversational seam — but I get the final «Goodbye» in at last and connect handset with desk unit without actually cutting her off. I sit back.
"Take it that was the mater, was it?" Frank calls jovially from the far side of my screen.
Before I can reply, the phone rings again. I jump, grabbing the device and dreading it being her again, remembering something she forgot to say.
"Yes?" I squeak.
"Hello, civilisation calling," says a slightly plummy English voice.
"What?"
"Cameron, it's Neil. You wanted to talk."
"Oh, Neil, hi." Neil is an ex-colleague who went to London to work in Fleet Street when Fleet Street wasn't full of Japanese banks. His father served in the Intelligence Corps during the Korean War, where he met Sir Andrew (Our Ed and recovering coronary patient). Neil is the coolest fogy I know; smokes opium and believes utterly in the Royal Family, despises socialism and Thatcher almost equally and votes Liberal because the family always has since Liberals were called Whigs. Shoots stags and hooks salmon. Hurtles down the Cresta Run each year. Drives a Bentley S2. They could have invented the word «urbane» just for him. These days he freelances in Intelligence matters, occasionally for the broadsheets though mostly for corporate clients. "How are you?" I say, frowning towards my screen. Just then, however, Frank stands up and saunters off, Biro between his teeth.
"Well, and busy," Neil drawls. "What can I do for you?"
"You can tell me what you found out about those five guys who popped their clogs in such suspicious circumstances between "86 and "88. You know; the guys who all have connections with Sellascale or Winfield or Dun-Nukin" or whatever they're calling it these days."
There is a pause. "Oh," Neil says, and I can hear him lighting a cigarette. My mouth waters. You lucky bastard. "That old thing."
"Yeah," I say, putting my feet up on the desk. "That old thing that reads like a spy novel and nobody ever came up with a decent explanation for."
"No case to answer, boy wonder," he sighs. "An unfortunate sequence of coincidences."
"Sounds like a Long Involved Explanation. No?"
Neil laughs, recalling our acronymic private code from the year we worked together. "No; it's the Totally Reliable Utterly Trustworthy… damn, what was the last word?"
"Hint," I tell him, grinning. "We never did come up with a better alternative."
"Indeed. Well, that's what it is; a Fucking Actualite, Cameron, Tovarisch."
"You serious?" I say, trying not to laugh. "All these guys who just happened to be connected with BNFL or GCHQ or Military Intelligence and just happened to croak violently within twenty months of each other? I mean, really?"
"Cameron, I do realise your Menshevik soul cries out for there to be a perfectly irrational fascist conspiracy behind all this, but the boring truth is that there isn't. Or, if there is, it's far, far too well run for it to be the work of any intelligence service I've ever encountered. There's never been any reliable hint it was anybody on our side; Mossad — arguably the only people capable of carrying out such a consistently successful campaign without leaving the scene scattered with their agency-issue trench-coats sporting name, rank and serial number sewn into the collars — had no discernible motive, and we can be even more sure of our friends in Moscow given that, since the unfortunate demise of the Workers" State, ex-KGB bods have been positively falling over each other in the rush to beat the breast and confess their past sins, and not one of them has even mentioned those five deceased sons of Cumbria and environs."
"Six, if you count the doc who did the PMs on the three Cumbrian stiffs."
Neil sighs. "Even so."
I'm thinking. This could be a fairly important decision I'm making here. Do I tell Neil about Mr Archer and Daniel Smout? Or do I keep quiet about it? Christ, this story could just be the biggest fucking thing since Watergate; a plot — if I'm reading the hints right — involving the West, or just Her Majesty's Government, or at the very least a bunch of people who were in positions to pull it off, to arm our once-staunch-ally-against-the-fiendish-Mullahs — now number-one hate figure — Saddam Hussein with nukes, back when the Iran-Iraq war wasn't all going his way.
"You know," Neil sighs again, "I have the most terrible feeling I'm going to regret asking this question, but what leads you to make this enquiry, unless it's the simple explanation that news of these five sad deaths has only just arrived in Caledonia?"
"Well," I say, playing with the telephone cord.
"What?" Neil says, in that why-are-you-wasting-my-valuable-time? voice.
"I've had a call from somebody who claims to know about this who's saying that there's another couple of names involved."
"And who would they be?"
"I've only got one of the names so far." I take a deep breath. I'll do a Mr Archer; I'll give him it a bit at a time. "Smout," I tell Neil. "Daniel Smout. Our man in Baghdad."
Neil is silent for a few seconds. Then I hear him exhale. "Smout." A pause. "I see." Another pause. "So," he says, slowly and thoughtfully, "if Iraq was involved, it's not impossible Mossad would take an interest. Though of course one of our serial self-terminators was himself of the Semitic persuasion…"
"So was Vanunu."
"Indeed. Hmm. Interesting. You do realise, though, that your informant is probably a crank."
"Probably."
"Have they been reliable before?"
"No; new source, as far as I can tell. And all they've come up with is a sequence of names. So it could easily be a crank. Very easily. In fact, probably. I mean, wouldn't you say? Don't you think it probably is?"
I'm gibbering. I suddenly feel rather stupid and a little nervous.
"You said there was a sixth name," Neil says calmly. "Any hints there?"
"Well, I've got what my guy says is a code-name for him."
"And that is?" Neil says patiently.
"Well, ah…"
"Cameron. I swear I shan't try to scoop you, if that's what you're worried about."
"Of course not," I say. "I know that. It's just that… it could be nothing."
"Very possibly, but —»
"Look, Neil, I'd like to talk to somebody."
"How do you mean?"
"Somebody in the business; you know."
""Somebody in the business"," Neil says evenly.
Christ, I wish I had a cigarette. "Yeah," I say. "Somebody in the business; somebody in the service. Somebody who'll look me in the eye and tell me MI6 or whoever had got nothing to do with all this; somebody I can give this to."
"Hmm."
I let him think for a bit. Eventually, Neil says, "Well, there are always people one can talk to, certainly. Look, I'll suggest this to some contacts I have. See what their reaction is. But I know that, if I do suggest it, before they decide what to do they'll want to know who it is they're dealing with; they'll want to know your name."
"I thought they might. That's okay; you can tell them."
"Right you are, then. I'll report back what the reaction is, fair enough?"
"Fair enough."
"Good. To tell the truth, I'll be fairly interested in seeing it myself. Assuming this isn't a crank we're dealing with."
"Okay," I say, looking over my screen and trying to peer over my bookcase, wondering who I can scrounge a fag off. "Well, that's good of you, Neil. I appreciate this."
"Not at all. Now, when are you next coming up to town, or do you Picts have to apply for a travel warrant or something?"
You arrive at Mr Oliver's home in Leyton at nine, as agreed when you saw him in his shop in Soho during the afternoon. He will have had time to get back from the shop, have his evening meal, watch one of his favourite soap operas and take a shower. The maisonette is part of a brick-built terrace over a row of shops, restaurants and offices. You press the entryphone button.
"Hello?"
"Mr Oliver? It's Mr Mellin here. Mr Mellin. From this afternoon?"
"Yeah. Right." The door buzzes.
Inside, behind the sturdy, heavily secured door, the stairwell is richly carpeted and the walls are decorated with expensive Regency-style wallpaper. Ornately framed Victorian landscape paintings look down from the stairwell walls. Mr Oliver appears at the top of the stairs.
He is a plump little man with sallow skin and very black hair you suspect is dyed. He wears a cashmere cardigan over his waistcoat and trousers. His shirt is raw silk. Cravat. Slippers. He smells strongly of Polo.
"Good evening," you say.
"Yeah, hello." The second word actually sounds more like «allow» but you know what he means. He stands back as you reach the top of the stairs, and puts out one pudgy hand while looking you up and down. You wish the light — from a miniature chandelier in the hall — was a little less bright. The moustache prickles under your nose. You shake hands. Mr Oliver's grip is damp, quite strong. His gaze drops to the fat briefcase you're holding. He waves one hand. "Come in."
The lounge is a little ostentatious; Mr Oliver favours thick white rugs, black leather furniture, chrome-and-glass tables, and a TV, video and hi-fi unit which takes up most of one wall.
"Sit down. Like a drink?" Mr Oliver says. It actually sounds like "Sidahn, loy-a dring? but again you understand.
You sit on the edge of a leather seat, hunched up and looking nervous, the briefcase on your knees. You're wearing a cheap suit and you still have your gloves on.
"Um, well, ah, yes, please," you say, trying to sound nervous and unsure of yourself. Of course you are nervous, but not in the way you're implying.
Mr Oliver goes to a chrome-and-smoked-glass drinks cabinet. "What would you like?"
"Um, do you have any orange juice?"
Mr Oliver looks at you. "Orange juice," he says, and bends to look in a small fridge set into the drinks cabinet.
He fixes himself a vodka and Coke and sits down on the couch to your left. You think he's looking at you slightly strangely and you worry that perhaps your disguise isn't fooling him. You cough nervously.
"So, Mr Mellin," he says. "What is it you've got for me?"
"Well," you say, looking round. You watched the place all through the afternoon and you're fairly sure there's nobody else in here, but you're not absolutely certain. "As I said, um, in the shop, it's something a bit… a bit special. Something I understand there is a demand for."
"What sort of special we talking here?"
"W-w-w-well, well it's of a, shall we say, um, a violent nature. Quite a violent nature, in fact. And involves, ah… and involves, ah, ch-ch-ch-children. I was told that you… you can, you can… that you deal in that sort of, um, item."
Mr Oliver purses his lips. "Well, you'd have to be a bit of an idiot to just tell people that, wouldn't you? I mean, you wouldn't want to confess to something like that to a stranger, know what I mean?"
"Oh," you say, sounding crestfallen. "You mean you don't —»
"Na, I'm not saying nothing, am I? I'm just saying you got to be careful, know what I mean?"
"Ah," you say, nodding. "Yes. Yes, of course. Of course one does have to be… careful. I see. I see what you mean."
"Why don't you show me what you've brought, eh? We'll take a little look and then we'll see, eh?"
"Yes; yes, right. Of course. Ah, right; what I've brought, um, well, it's just part of it, to show you, but I think it amply demonstrates —»
"Video, yeah?"
"Yes, that's correct. On video." You unclip the catches on the briefcase, take out a plain VHS60 cassette and put the briefcase on the floor to one side as you stand up, handing the video to him.
"Ta." He takes it and goes to the video machine. You remain standing.
The cassette won't load properly; you can hear the VCR mechanism whining. Mr Oliver bends to look more closely at the machine. You come up behind him.
"Um, is there a problem?" you ask.
"Yeah; doesn't seem to be —»
The cassette will not load because you glued the hinged tape-cover down. Mr Oliver does not get to complete his sentence; you cosh him across the back of the head. However, he had started to move his head as you swung at him, and you only land a glancing blow.
He falls to one side, one hand trying to find purchase on the wall of hi-fi components, shifting the CD player and amp back on their shelves. "What —?" he says. You smack the cosh hard into his face, breaking his nose, then stamp on his crotch as he falls back. He doubles up on the floor, lying on his side, snorting and gasping.
You're staring wildly round the room waiting for some burly minder to come charging in swinging a baseball bat, your other hand in the pocket of your suit where the Browning is, but nobody appears. You lean forward and cosh Mr Oliver across the back of the head. He goes limp.
You handcuff his arms behind his back and go to the briefcase to get the things you will need.
Once you have everything ready and the camcorder is set up you have to wait for him to wake up. You go down to the street door and lock and chain it, then pad round the maisonette making quite sure there is nobody else in.
Mr Oliver's bedroom is all wood, brass, furs and red velvet. A glass cabinet houses a militaria collection, specialising in the Waffen SS. A bookcase holds numerous books about Nazi Germany and Hitler. Mr Oliver's private videos are stored in a repro teak-and-walnut wardrobe. There is a large combination floor-safe under the Persian carpet.
You bring what looks like a representative selection of the videos down to the lounge where Mr Oliver is sitting, still unconscious and sagging slightly, handcuffed and tied in a chrome-and-leather chair you brought down from the second bedroom. You have gagged him wi
th a sock and a silk scarf you brought from his bedroom. His right arm is firmly tied to the leather-padded arm of the chair. You have removed his cardigan and rolled his shirt sleeve up.
While you wait for Mr Oliver to regain consciousness you look at the videos you brought down from the bedroom.
Some feature the gang-buggerings of children; mostly male and mostly Asian or South American. Others show women being mounted by donkeys and other animals, in what looks like a prison. The men watching all have moustaches and wear military dress. These look like second- or third-generation recordings and the definition is not quite precise enough for you to be sure, but you think those might be Iraqi army uniforms. There are a couple of videos which may come from the same source and show people — men, women, children — being tortured with irons, hair-driers, curling tongs and so on. There is no actual snuff material here, but you wonder what the floor-safe you discovered contains.
Mr Oliver starts to moan behind his gag and you put on your gorilla mask. You wait for his eyes to open then start the little Sony camcorder running. You take the gas cylinder from the briefcase, turn the valve on and suck.
"Mr Oliver," you say, in a high, absurdly babyish voice. "Welcome back."
He stares wide-eyed at you, then at the video camera, sitting on its miniature tripod on the coffee table.
You take another suck on the helium. "You're going to star in your own video, isn't that funny?"
He shakes in the seat, roaring behind the gag. You go to the briefcase and bring out a wide-mouthed medicine bottle. Cling-film over the top of it is secured with elastic bands. You shake the bottle, then lift the syringe from the briefcase.
Mr Oliver screams when he sees these.
You suck on the helium again, then hold the dumpy medicine bottle up and show him the thick-looking off-white liquid inside. "Can you guess what this is?" you ask him in the voice of a manic baby.