Per Fine Ounce

by Peter Vollmer

  A Regimental Sergeant-Major, one of the many army and civilian personnel in attendance approached him, smiled in recognition, and saluted smartly.

  “Good morning, Commander,” he said.

  “Good to see you again, Jim,” Peace said and grinned in return. “You know it should actually be Mr Peace. Goodness, we don’t want to remind eavesdroppers of my rank, do we? This is an intelligence establishment. VA would have a bloody fit!” It was obvious this was said in jest, though there was a hint of gravity in the man’s deep voice. “Bloody ridiculous, really, they probably all know who I am by now anyway.” He looked around as if the enemy could be seen in the passing crowd. Both men laughed.

  The RSM and Peace had known each other for years and these short conversations, which usually took place after Peace was off on some clandestine mission, had become a ritual between the two of them. The RSM, a battle-hardened veteran, had participated in his own fair share of black ops and knew where Peace fitted within MI6. The young man also made sure he always exchanged a few words with the RSM.

  “Well, in that case, tell me, Guv, how was the holiday?” the RSM asked. The same scene was repeated every time the Commander returned from a mission, with a few comments about his supposed sexual conquests before he entered the precincts.

  The young man’s eyes flashed, the corners crinkling. “Smashing, as our chaps would put it. Jim, believe me — there’s nothing like those hot-blooded Brazilian women. My God, man, those tangas! But then again, I only looked — never had time to test the water.”

  Peace stood six foot two inches tall, his sandy hair parted on one side, cut short back and sides and shaped by a West End barber. Piercing silver-grey eyes with laugh lines radiating from the corners were set in a chiselled face, his features revealing nothing soft, while under his suit his body was lean and muscled. When he laughed, he revealed a set of straight perfect teeth, with no indication he had recently undergone some major dental work paid for by the British Crown. Chipped teeth, smashed jaws, broken bones and the occasional bullet or knife wound were accepted injuries — merely an occupational hazard.

  “How is our illustrious leader, Sir John, this morning?” Peace enquired.

  The sergeant rolled his eyes in mock horror. “Awful, Guv, but that’s not unusual. I was told by Sir John’s office to speed up your arrival were I to see you. The Vice Admiral has some important bigwigs with him. I recognised the Governor of the bank, would you believe.”

  The young man frowned.

  “That’s ominous. Well, I best hurry. I’ll see you later.”

  He passed through the security checkpoint, where he looked into the iris-recognition device and then had every personal item in his possession scanned. This done, he strode towards the bank of elevators.

  Many might expect the Section Chief, in recognition of his exalted position, to be accommodated in an office near the top floor, overlooking the Thames. However, Vice Admiral Sir John Whitehead, generally referred to as VA when not in his presence, would have none of this. Instead, he and his staff were housed in a lower basement that never saw the light of day, but this was more than made up for by the fancy interior décor which made it appear like just another floor. Other than the absence of sunlight, there was no indication the walls were constructed from solid reinforced concrete, or that there were no apertures to accommodate windows, the lack of which was deftly concealed behind drapes, panelling and paintings. Air was circulated through ducts in the ceiling at a constant 20ºC. The furnishings were modern and intended to create a relaxed atmosphere, further enhanced by the deep carpets and recessed lighting.

  Peace continued to the end of the corridor. Along the way he passed through a general office and an open-plan area with a dozen or so desks separated by shoulder-high room dividers, giving the occupants at their desks a small degree of privacy — a layout cribbed from the Americans. He was greeted by those at the desks who noticed him.

  Sir John preferred the confines of the basement which prevented any long-range eavesdropping with sophisticated acoustic equipment, while the sole entrance via the elevators and the emergency stairway made any unauthorised entry impossible. He had a phobia about security, being forever aware of the embarrassment that Burgess and other Soviet spies had heaped on the British Intelligence Services — a fact that had never been forgotten by their American allies.

  Peace entered a door marked Vice Admiral Sir John Whitehead, and smiled at the middle-aged woman seated behind her desk.

  “Geoffrey, what a pleasant surprise,” Jenny Damsby said with a smile. “Need I tell you that Sir John is not happy?” she added, her way of telling him that he was late.

  “Really?” Peace replied, raising his eyebrows. He had long since immunised himself against his boss’s mood swings.

  “Don’t let him hear you, he has — ”

  This was interrupted by a loud crackle from the intercom on her desk.

  “No chit-chat, please. Send him in immediately.”

  Peace rolled his eyes, and she smiled at him, shrugging her shoulders.

  “He’s inclined to eavesdrop, isn’t he?” Peace murmured.

  Miss Damsby’s eyes widened in alarm and she brought her finger to her lips, emitting a faint shhhh. She was obviously terrified that Sir John could hear them.

  Peace was well aware she knew of his private and professional exploits. MI6 was paranoid when it came to the lives and doings of its top operatives and staff. How many times had she not sent him a bottle of Glenfiddich, courtesy of Sir John, to some hospital where he was recuperating? Peace also knew that she realised he and the VA were forever at a game of one-upmanship to which neither would ever admit. On occasion, Peace would refer to the VA as a member of the Y-front brigade, emphasising that he himself wore skants.

  “Bunch of bloody pansies, the Y-fronts,” he had once said. He was ex-SAS and would have been slighted were anyone to cast him in the same mould as those known as the Cambridge Five, who were Soviet spies and an embarrassment to the British Intelligence Services. Their legacy seemed destined to stay around, since the Soviets had even recently commemorated Kim Philby on a Soviet postage stamp!

  Leaving his mackintosh and umbrella hanging from the hat rack in the corner, Peace opened the door and strode into Sir John’s office. Here he was surprised to see other occupants in the room seated around the small conference table.

  “Come in, Peace. You’re late,” the Vice Admiral barked. “I’m sure you know the others, but let me introduce you just in case. There’s no need to stand on formality. Sit, we have serious matters to discuss.”

  He’d received no welcoming smile, but he wasn’t surprised. VA, in his opinion, was an emotionless mental bully. How could he be late? He had just returned from holiday, after all.

  It was 9:08 a.m. Hell, that wasn’t late! This was London!

  Sir John went on with the introductions. Peace had immediately recognised the Governor of the Bank of England, Sir Ian Douglas; unmistakable with his straight combed-back white hair, and Thomas Fulton, the Exchequer’s assistant and right-hand man. What the hell is going on? This looked extremely serious.

  Sir John studied Peace carefully. “Brazil seems to have agreed with you,” he finally remarked. “Well, you’ll probably be off to a land of sunshine soon again, but first I need to tell you a rather involved story. Listen carefully, Commander.”

  Sir John nodded at the Governor and Sir Ian cleared his throat.

  “Commander, for all intents and purposes, and certainly as far as the rest of the world is concerned, it appears that we have distanced ourselves from the South African government because of their abhorrent apartheid policy. Actually, this is no more than a façade. In reality, we are still close — the Communists remain a common enemy. The South Africans are the biggest gold producers in the world, the world’s largest supplier of strategic metals, and the most powerful country on the African continent. The Western world also needs them to protect the sea route around the tip of sou
thern Africa. Need I say more?”

  “You could say we still need each other for a good number of reasons,” the Exchequer’s man interposed, the only representative of the elected government present.

  The Governor frowned at Fulton as he continued. “To the problem. A rather large bullion shipment en route to us from South Africa has been hijacked. In physical terms, this was eight tons of gold ingots. Unbelievable, isn’t it?”

  When was gold ever expressed in terms of tons? Peace did a quick mental calculation: that was roughly £21,000,000 at the current gold price.

  “How were the bullion containers hijacked?” he asked.

  “Well, that’s the point. They arrived at their destination at London Heathrow, but when the containers were opened, they contained only lead bars. The containers were the original steel ones from the gold refinery in Germiston, South Africa. Of course, we’ve carried out an extensive investigation together with the Gold Branch of the South African Police. I should add that the Gold Branch is staffed by the very best the South African Police has to offer. Those chaps know what they’re doing, in particular a Mr Desmond Carruthers, a Colonel who held the rank of Chief Superintendent when he was with Scotland Yard. Sadly, he was made an offer he could not ignore by the South Africans a few years ago, if you know what I mean. Putting it bluntly, they stole him. However, his presence has ensured good cooperation. Fortunately, he still has some loyalty to the Crown,” the Governor said smugly.

  Sir John intervened. “Of course, Peace, everything is still under wraps. The disappearance has not been leaked to anyone; neither Fleet Street nor any other international news agencies have an inkling of what has happened. We want to keep it that way. The South African Gold Branch is playing the same game. A loss of this dimension would impact heavily on the mining sector of the stock market, here and in South Africa. This would not bode well. Also, no one has come forward to take responsibility.”

  Sir Ian nodded in agreement before continuing.

  “Naturally, we’re in constant communication with South Africa. To add to this, a number of other disturbing events have taken place during the last few months. An abnormally high number of gold shares on the Johannesburg and London Stock Exchange have changed hands. Whether this is merely business as usual has been impossible to establish. The current political situation in South Africa, as you can well imagine, has had a profound influence on South African shares quoted on both the London and Johannesburg Stock Exchanges.”

  Sir Ian brought his cup to his lips and sipped. He continued, “There are simply too many front companies and investment houses involved. During the past year or so, the gold mines have been plagued by wildcat strikes and other unexplainable disruptions — explosions, mechanical breakdowns, a whole series of incidents; certainly a good many more than is usual. Nobody seems to know whether this is subtle sabotage by the underground Black Nationalist movements, or no more than a spate of unusual events. Some have even suggested that these disruptions have been instigated from within in order to manipulate the share price.” Sir Ian smiled. “I never trust stockbrokers. As you can imagine, this has driven the share prices down, with many shareholders disposing of their shares before they plunge further. There are always ready buyers in the wings — there still are, and they are holding the price artificially high as they take up these shares, otherwise, prices would have fallen appreciably more.”

  “How much do you know about the gold industry?” VA asked Peace.

  “Not much, I’m not interested in the stock market. I’ve never been a gambling man and buying shares is no more than gambling, is it not? I leave it to my brokers to do any investing; they know a lot more than I do.”

  A look of disdain crossed the Vice Admiral’s face, clearly not happy with Peace’s reply. Sir John’s love for the tables was no secret among his staff.

  Peace noticed VA’s expression. He thinks I’m an insolent bastard trying to upstage or embarrass him.

  Sir John indicated to Sir Ian that he should continue.

  “Well, let me tell you this — the bulk of the gold industry in South Africa is controlled by five large mining houses. The one that interests us is an Afrikaner group called Afrikaner Goudeiendomme — Gold Properties, if you want a translation. It’s chaired by Anton Van Rhyn. He’s a late arrival in the industry, but he’s amassed a colossal fortune in a relatively short period. He’s said to be brilliant, ruthless and an ardent Afrikaner nationalist. He was a firebrand when still young, a follower of the Afrikaner diehards who were sympathetic towards the Nazis and who took over the government from General Smuts in ’48. Like many other young Afrikaners, he joined the Afrikaner national youth movement a few years after Smuts’ downfall in 1948. He has two daughters, who were or are still both at Oxford. His elder daughter is Janet Van Rhyn and, like her father, is said to be ultra-right-wing. Apparently, she dislikes the Blacks intensely. She’s never married. She’s also on the board of Afrikaner Goudeiendomme. Her mother, Van Rhyn’s first wife, died of cancer and he remarried. He later wedded Lady Jocelyn Langton — ring a bell? She has a daughter, Margaret, whom Van Rhyn adopted; she’s now known as Margaret Langton-Van Rhyn.”

  Peace arched his eyebrows. “Lady Jocelyn Langton? Yes, I do recall her — did she not, even before her husband’s death, openly consort with this Van Rhyn chap, causing a scandal? I hear she’s quite a bombshell, if you know what I mean?”

  VA frowned at Peace’s description.

  The bastard thinks I’ve no subtlety whatsoever, Peace thought, as Sir John made no effort to hide his disdain.

  For a moment, Peace’s directness appeared to have also embarrassed Fulton.

  “Oh well… yes, you could say that… you’re right. Anyway, she and Van Rhyn married three years ago. Her inherited fortune, combined with his, probably places them among those whose wealth borders on the astronomical. Need I say more?” Fulton said, and then continued, “We believe Van Rhyn is behind the manipulations of the gold shares, particularly as these relate to the five large mining houses. In this, he is supported by Lady Jocelyn. They’re both outspoken about our government and the manner in which we have mismanaged our African mining interests, allowing them to be nationalised with little compensation for the original shareholders. Naturally, they’re also most unhappy about the alacrity with which we’ve granted independence to our various colonies in Africa. If I were to wear an industrialist’s hat, I would have to concede that they may have a point. They have tremendous support from right-wing quarters.” He shook his head in mock disbelief. “Believe me, there is no shortage of right-wing fanatics out there.”

  Sir John, who had attentively leaned forward in his chair, sighed again and leaned back. All sat in silence, digesting the information.

  “You’ve told me little of the gold hijack. Any idea how this was pulled off?” Peace asked. Sir Ian’s faint smile vanished and his face was serious again.

  “Unbeknownst to many, Afrikaner Goudeiendomme holds a majority shareholding in the gold refining industry in South Africa. That would be Consortium Gold Refiners Limited. Most gold mined in the country passes through Consortium; they are the largest gold refiners in the world. This shipment was supposedly taken directly from their premises on the outskirts of Johannesburg, in proper bullion containers, to Jan Smuts Airport, a few miles away. However, we have no doubt that the gold never left the refinery. Clearly, this was an inside job, though at this stage, this remains speculation. Mr Van Rhyn is being obstructive and prefers to carry out his own internal investigation. I do not need to tell you that he is under tremendous pressure from the South African government. They’re not all diehard fanatics, and our friend is certainly not liked by the new enlightened supporters of President de Klerk. However, there’s a rumour, it really being nothing more than a whisper, and without any substantiation at all as of now.”

  Sir John leaned forward in his chair and rested his elbows on the armrests, his hands clasped in front of him. He silently appraised Peace for a f
ew seconds. Peace knew that another surprise was coming.

  VA continued, “It is said that a subversive Afrikaner movement — ultra-right-wing of course, is behind this. The most tantalising piece of information is that Van Rhyn of Goudeiendomme is involved. Remember, this is just speculation but good to bear in mind.”

  Peace remained silent but pursed his lips and continued to stare at VA whose expression now became particularly sombre as he said, “And now for the really bad news. Several of us believe the South Africans have their hands on a neutron bomb. A bloody enhanced radiation weapon, or ERW as it’s referred to. It’s not capable of the structural damage an ordinary nuclear bomb can inflict, although its explosive yield is still in the kiloton range. It’s the radiation release that’s the real killer — armour, dugouts, and so forth, aren’t able to protect the occupants. What it does is destroy life indiscriminately by intense radiation. It permeates through everything.”

  He paused to light a cigarette.

  “The Russians have done their utmost to hush things up, but we have reason to believe that a bomb has gone missing from their previous Strategic Rocket Forces, from a nuclear base in the Ukraine. It may well have found its way to South Africa. We know it’s not part of the South African nuclear arsenal, around which the strictest of security is maintained. As you know, their nuclear weapons are now in the process of being decommissioned. We think Van Rhyn has it, along with four missing South African nuclear bombs, all stashed in Copperton.” He tapped a photograph on the table as if to lend significance to his statement.

  “Intelligence sources have revealed that South Africa never disclosed the correct number of bombs it had, but left all with the impression that those being decommissioned were the total number they possess. However, this was not so. Ultra-right factions in the highest echelons of the military spirited these away in some ingenious manner. The bombs simply disappeared. Well, can you imagine the embarrassment to the South African government? The disappearance of the four bombs is still a secret known to very few.”