The Convenience of Lies

by Geoffrey Seed

  He fumbled with the ring pull then took a slow swig to give himself time to think and retrieve his wits from Africa. His fake driving licence was in his mind’s eye and he was straining to remember the name of who he was supposed to be.

  ‘Are you going to tell us or do we have to insert that can somewhere painful to help you remember?’

  ‘No, sorry… Brian Sydenham.’

  ‘Good, got any ID?’

  ‘All my stuff was stolen the other night.’

  ‘Can’t trust anyone these days. So what’s your business on the docks?’

  ‘I like watching the boats.’

  ‘And getting pissed, by the state of you.’

  McCall took another long drink and let some of it dribble down his unshaven chin and onto his donkey jacket. The second soldier joined in.

  ‘Nah, he doesn’t drink much. Looks like he spills most of it.’

  His opposite put his face closer to McCall’s. He’d had a curry the previous night.

  ‘We’ve been eye-balling you mooching around so I’ll ask you again, what you up to?’

  ‘I said, I like the boats.’

  ‘You’re pushing your luck, chum. Where do you live?’

  McCall knew this question was next and dreaded it. For the life of him, he couldn’t summon up the address on his moody licence.

  ‘I’m just bumming around… don’t have a place at the moment.’

  ‘OK, you’re coming with us while we check you out.’

  ‘I can’t, I’ve got to be at the Sally Army hostel soon.’

  ‘Not till we’ve given your story a spin then we’ll take it from there.’

  ‘But I’ve done nothing wrong. You can’t arrest me.’

  ‘You’d be fucking surprised what we can do, Brian. Now, get your arse in gear. A bit of a march might sober you up.’

  *

  McCall swore at himself for not going for the bus back to Barton when he’d the chance an hour before. He had seen everything he needed to by then - all except the soldiers spying on him. But he’d been too intrigued to leave. Benwick’s conspiracy was starting to emerge through the mist and drizzle.

  Once near the docks, McCall had found the café where dockers took breaks. He’d sat reading a paper and eavesdropping on their chat about the highly unusual consignment being loaded from the King George Dock. Then he got talking to a widower walking a dog on the jetty where his son was a crane driver.

  This was how he knew the train which left the weapons factory and supposedly hit and killed Benwick’s accomplice, had to be the one on the quayside - forty-two wagons tight packed with armour-piercing shells, anti-tank missiles, bombs, high explosives. The port authority claimed they carried only a general cargo of ironmongery like nuts, bolts and drainage pipes.

  So why the need for warning notices all around? Danger. Explosives. No smoking, lighters, matches or boots with metal heels or tips. The truth was, one stray spark and they’d run out of body bags.

  McCall got close enough to see crates labelled G.H.Q. Jordan Armed Forces, Planning and Organisation, Amman and others marked UK Military Explosives.

  According to what McCall overheard, five hundred tonnes of military hardware was being lowered into the MV Arta, a cargo ship newly arrived from Antwerp. It was due to leave for the Jordanian port of Aqaba on the Red Sea that coming Saturday. Benwick must have known about this shipment to a British ally in the Middle East.

  Yet he’d still tasked McCall to find out its sailing schedule, the name of the vessel’s agents - and to assess the general level of security. Through his own carelessness, he would now experience that at first hand.

  *

  ‘As I see it, Brian, you either tell me why you’ve been snooping about the docks or we charge you under the Official Secrets Act.’

  McCall restrained the urge to corpse before the bacon-faced jobsworth across the desk. The plastic ID badge pinned to his lapel said he was Charles Aldridge, deputy security manager. The Dockers in the café called him Pinky. McCall saw how well it suited the officious little drone trying to put the frighteners on him.

  ‘I like looking at the boats.’

  ‘Do you know what I think, Brian?’

  McCall shrugged, knowing the range of Pinky’s intellectual skills would take a finely calibrated instrument to measure.

  ‘You’re a PIRA man, that’s what… sent to case the docks for an attack.’

  First a spy, now a terrorist. It promised to be a hell of a court case. McCall tipped back his can of lager and barely suppressed a belch.

  ‘But you’ve been expected. That’s why we’ve got soldiers guarding the train.’

  Then the door swung open. The man who strode in unannounced as if this were his office not Pinky’s, was Larry Benwick. He wore a well-cut city suit, white shirt, red tie bearing a crested Parachute Regiment motif and carried a metallic brief case.

  ‘You must be Charlie Aldridge,’ he said. ‘I’m Ed Richfield, Special Branch.’

  Charlie immediately stood up in deference to authority. McCall tried to hide his amazement - and immense relief - by swigging the remains of his lager. Benwick took a warrant card from his wallet so Charlie could see he was dealing with a detective chief inspector from London. They shook hands and Benwick’s jacket fell open as if by chance. And there was his Makarov, pouched in a black shoulder holster.

  ‘Hope my sergeant’s not been causing you too much trouble.’

  Benwick and McCall exchange grins. Charlie’s face became even more pink, like the slapped arse he knew he’d made of himself.

  ‘OK, we’ve not much time, Charlie. I’ve got to brief you but not here, some place where we’re not being clocked.’

  ‘Should I go and get my boss?’

  ‘No, on no account do that. My instructions are to talk only to you.’

  Charlie must have thought about asking why but rolled with the compliment. It would not be the last.

  ‘The people above me rate you, Charlie… the funny people, do you understand?’

  ‘You mean - ’

  ‘Yes, them. A job’s going down here very soon and only guys we can trust can be brought into the loop. Are you with me, Charlie?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  A good con man intuits his mark’s most unreachable desire then suckers them into a scheme by revealing a way it can be achieved. But as night follows day, there will be strings - and barbed wire - attached.

  Charlie hadn’t a moment’s doubt SB was recruiting him. And the more McCall witnessed Benwick’s acting, the greater his doubts over who really was on stage - Larry Benwick of S.O.10, Ed Richfield of Special Branch or even some as yet unknown third party.

  ‘I take it you’ve got your car here, Charlie?’

  ‘Out at the back, yes.’

  ‘Good, and I’m told you still live alone.’

  ‘Since my wife cleared off.’

  ‘Join the club. OK, let’s make our way to your billet then we’ll talk there.’

  *

  Beneath Charlie’s desire to please was the discontent of a man who believed himself undervalued, never given the chance to shine to his full potential. It hadn’t been him who’d brought the undercover sergeant in for questioning. Those squaddies did that. He only acted on their information.

  But now, vindication. Two Special Branch officers - the arms and legs of MI5 - were drinking Scotch in his maisonette and discussing a covert operation for which he’d been hand-picked to play a role. Equally satisfying to Charlie was being right about the threat from the Provisional IRA.

  ‘The Provos have a man working somewhere on the docks,’ Benwick said. ‘Trouble is, we don’t know if he’s a white collar asset or a docker so that’s why you mustn’t say a word about us or what you hear tonight to another living soul, whatever job they do around here. You understand, don’t you?’

  ‘Totally, absolutely, on my life.’

  ‘We’d rather it didn’t to come to that, Charlie.’

 
Charlie cleared his throat and asked what was wanted of him.

  ‘Keep an especially close watch on everybody and everything tomorrow. If we hit any trouble, we’ll need your contacts and local knowledge.’

  ‘What’s the job we’re on?’

  ‘Right, you obviously know what’s being unloaded from that train on the dock.’

  ‘Indeed, all very secret is that so I had to be told.’

  ‘OK, it’s not certain yet but we think the Provos are working on something nasty before the ship sails so we’ll have a little surprise waiting for them if they do.’

  ‘So the SAS are here as well, then?’

  ‘You wouldn’t see them even if I told you where to look, Charlie.’

  ‘And is that all you want me to be, eyes and ears?’

  ‘No, there’s something far more important.’

  Benwick reached inside his jacket for a sealed padded envelope.

  ‘If the Provos haven’t shown by four tomorrow afternoon, the raid’s being put back twenty-four hours, according to our source. In that case, I need you to get down to London before eight and go to a pub in Soho called the John Snow. It’s in Broadwick Street and I want you to give this to a guy about my age and build, dark hair who’ll be sitting at the bar doing the Evening Standard crossword. Just say the rich man wants you to have this but don’t hang about, just leave.’

  ‘Why, what’s in it?’

  ‘On a need-to-know basis, it’s best you don’t but a lot’s riding on it, maybe even the lives of a few good men. Can we trust you to do this for us, Charlie?’

  ‘I’m keen to help but why me for this part of the job?’

  ‘Because certain people will be taking a closer look at you, watching how you handle yourself under our sort of pressure. I’m not a betting man but I’d put a few quid on you being in a different job in a few weeks from now.’

  Too damn right, McCall thought. He felt a twinge of pity for the gowk - but nothing more. Then again, if Charlie didn’t know what was going on, neither did McCall.

  For the moment, Charlie fixed them up with blankets and pillows to bed down in his sitting room. Morning would soon be upon them then they’d each discover how loudly God was laughing.

  Thirty-Nine

  Benwick was still method-acting his role as an operational DCI with Special Branch when he gave Charlie his orders after toast and coffee early next day.

  ‘Don’t be moving your bowels at noon. That’s when we’ll be coming to your office.’

  ‘You can rely on me, but what happens after that?

  ‘We’ll still have work for you,’ Benwick said. ‘Now drop us in town and go to the docks like this is a normal, boring day.’

  They watched Charlie drive off then found a café. Benwick wore a donkey jacket over his suit and gave McCall enough money to buy himself a complete new outfit.

  ‘Make yourself look like a detective sergeant, get a decent haircut then dump your old clothes in a charity shop.’

  ‘What will you be doing?’

  ‘I’ve got things to see to and phone calls to make so I’ll meet you outside the Maritime Museum in three hours, no later.’

  *

  They walked to the King George Dock in a chill wind coming off the sea. McCall sensed the imminent end of whatever Benwick had been planning for weeks, maybe months.

  McCall no longer had the benefit of time. He couldn’t be anything less than direct, to provoke a reaction and maybe find out how the illusionist was doing his tricks.

  ‘What’s all that fanny about the spooks and Charlie’s envelope yesterday?’

  ‘I need him out of the way tonight in case anyone starts asking questions and he comes over all talkative.’

  ‘Do you con everyone like you’ve conned Charlie?’

  ‘What you’re really asking is if I’ve I conned you.’

  ‘Possibly, but libel lawyers will tell you it’s unwise to ever think you know the true motivation of anyone.’

  ‘I agree. I’m always intrigued by people’s reasoning.’

  ‘So what’s yours for throwing away your career and maybe even your liberty?’

  ‘It’s inevitable that we takes sides in this world, McCall, reach our own conclusions about what’s right and what’s wrong and if we’ve a chance to influence the course of events, then some of us take it.’

  ‘Whatever the dangers and even if it means lying to people?’

  ‘Factors you must have considered when carrying out all those missions for Vickers.’

  ‘Deceit is sometimes required for a greater good.’

  ‘Ah, so there was a higher purpose in what you did for Queen and country?’

  ‘Patriotism always sounds like a scoundrel’s defence but for all its faults, there are aspects of life in the old place which are still worth defending.’

  ‘That’s the gospel according to Saint Roly,’ Benwick said. ‘But the same can be said of some newer countries, surely?’

  ‘To explain that, you’ll need to spell out what events you’re trying to influence.’

  He didn’t reply at once. Huge container lorries pounded by and seagulls called and cried in the moist air. Yet McCall could almost hear Benwick’s actuarial brain calculating risk and probability.

  ‘Bearing in mind what we’re about to do, you’ve a right to know,’ he said. ‘But wait till we’re safe out of here. Then, follow my lead and let me do the spieling.’

  Beyond the dock gates, soldiers patrolled in pairs, scanning the faces of all who passed, assault rifles cradled and ready.

  Benwick got back in character and McCall’s mouth went a little dryer.

  *

  Charlie was in his office as instructed, looking even more inflated now he’d gained entry to the magic circle. He brought them weak tea in plastic beakers from a machine in the corridor outside and was anxious to give his sit-rep.

  ‘Nothing obviously suspicious so far,’ he said. ‘The loading of the Arta is more or less complete and everything seems set for her to leave tomorrow morning as scheduled.’

  ‘Good, now I’d like you to take us aboard,’ Benwick said. ‘I want to see the captain.’

  ‘Right, can do. Who shall I say you are?’

  ‘Special Branch, of course. We’ve had him checked via London and he’s definitely not the Provo’s snout.’

  The MV Arta was a five-thousand tonne general cargo vessel registered in Zagreb and chartered by the Jordanian National Line for this massive arms run.

  Its two deck cranes loomed above a black and red hull and the long rake of freight wagons on the quay which had transported so lethal a load across England.

  Charlie led Benwick and McCall up to the bridge and introduced them to the captain. He was a prematurely grey, leathery-faced Croat who’d not shaved for days. His English was limited so he mistakenly thought his paperwork was being inspected again. Benwick didn’t disabuse him.

  He shuffled through a stack of end-user certificates confirming all the munitions were bound for Jordan. Charlie wanted to stay around but Benwick reminded him of the need to keep vigilant - from his office, not the ship.

  Benwick turned to the captain with a knowing smile and opened his briefcase. From where he stood, McCall glimpsed an unopened bottle of Scotch and a blue plastic thermos flask. The reason for one was readily understood - and Benwick took it out. The captain found three glasses and the first of many fraternal toasts were made.

  McCall wondered what Benwick’s next move would be. He soon gestured at his guts with a look of constipated pain. The captain understood and Benwick went below - with his briefcase.

  McCall didn’t need telling what he now had to do. He refilled his host’s glass and began a diverting conversation about Croatia’s suffering in the endless bloody history of the Balkans.

  *

  It took Benwick several moments to adjust to the gloom below deck. All was quiet save for a generator keeping essential services going. The engine noise would be deafening down the
re when they set sail next day.

  He found the loo and locked himself in a nauseous metal box stinking of diesel, piss and shit. Breathing in wasn’t pleasant. He gripped a small torch between his teeth, opened his brief case then took out the thermos. With the top unscrewed, he began to set the timing mechanism inside.

  As he did, a crewman speaking Serbo Croat thumped the cubicle door. He was most likely demanding to know how long he’d have to wait. Benwick answered in Russian and said he needed another minute. The man left.

  Benwick screwed the cap back onto the flask then flushed the loo. He checked that no other seamen were on the walkway outside. Then he made for a door leading through the bulkhead to the hold on the other side.

  The weatherproof steel hatches above were already clamped in place and it was dark.

  But in the torchlight, he could see scores of wooden pallets containing bombs, missiles, explosives, stacked at least fifteen feet high.

  Benwick reached into a tight space between the crates and the ship’s curved sides. He placed the thermos in one packed with anti-tank missiles. Each contained highly inflammable rocket propellant. Within the next twenty-four hours, just how inflammable would become exceedingly apparent.

  He mounted the metal steps back up to the bridge. He’d been away barely four minutes. The hooch was making the captain less morose and he wanted them to stay to eat with him. Benwick apologised and said they were already late but would have one last drink to toast the enduring friendship between their two nations.

  *

  McCall and Benwick hurried across the greasy steel rails where the emptied freight wagons waited to be shunted away. They headed towards the dock gates. It was drizzling steadily, enough to drain the colour out of everywhere and everything. All seemed grey - the sea, the sky and the drab brick buildings around the quay.

  Through it strode Benwick, aka DCI Richfield of Special Branch, his face energised with that saboteur’s smile again. But for what reason? Nothing McCall witnessed him doing on the ship warranted any such apparent satisfaction. The weaponry’s end-user certificates couldn’t have thrown up anything new. Whatever action Benwick took must have been in the few minutes he was away at the loo.

  Of more immediate concern to McCall was where they were going now and what would happen next. The initial buzz of covering whatever this story was from the inside was giving way to nagging worry. He was starting to feel strung along, used for reasons as unclear as the mystery Benwick kept promising to reveal but still hadn’t.