[2017] What Happened in Vienna, Jack?

by Daniel Kemp

  Sir Richard drew heavily on his cigar in jubilation, the tiredness now replaced by the onset of adventure. He smiled, satisfied in himself. First parts almost in place. I hope you caught the name, Irving, silently he reflected.

  For the next hour Dicky busied himself in procuring all that he thought he would need for the following day.

  Louise was summoned and instructed to find an unused office in the basement and fill it with the list of files he gave her. She was to remove her name from Wednesday's roster adding: special assignment duties in the space provided, then report to that office the next morning armed with her notebooks and pens.

  Whatever I say tomorrow morning, gibberish or not, I want you to note it down cross referenced with the file I'm reading from. I might need you to run a couple of errands for me as well, so, carry your top-floor security clearance pass as usual and some petty cash. It could be a long day. A flask would come in handy. Make it big enough for three. We'll have company! I will need an in-house pass. In catering I think. At least that way we can get more tea and sandwiches when your flask runs out. He laughed in a boyish fashion; a laugh of pleasure. Next came Fraser Ughert.

  “Ah, Fraser, glad I caught you. I was after the best man your department could offer me, but then I realised that it was you, old chap.” He laughed again. “Care to join me in a little escapade I have planned? It will mean a trip abroad with a bit of trade craft and canniness thrown in. Count you in on board can I?” Dicky needed a running mate and there was none better than Fraser.

  Ughert was a deceptive man, although another portrayal would include the word; deceitful. The deception arose through his physicality, or rather his lack of it. He had always been slight of build, but since his capture at Singapore, and the forced labour he endured under the Japanese on the Burma railway, it had worsened, never to recover. It wasn't a sense of patriotism that had saved his life in that state of brutal slavery, nor any devout belief in the sanctity of life itself, it was pure Scottish doggedness alongside the self-denying upbringing of an ascetic childhood. He would give nothing away freely, especially his survival.

  His lack of build was accentuated by the loose clothing he now chose to wear. Jackets that hung awkwardly, collars two sizes too big, and trousers pulled tight at the waist by belts that bunched up the excess material. But he was far from weak in any physical sense. The outward librarian appearance of a pale almost pasty complexion coupled with the black, thick-rimmed spectacles worn below his grey balding hairline hid a determination that a heavyweight boxer would envy. Fraser was not a man to take lightly, particularly when it came to a fight.

  The deceit that he proudly proclaimed as one of his characteristics had also come from his early childhood raised in the tiny Scottish village of Cambuskenneth, on the outskirts of the City of Stirling. Through those tranquil, initial years he smelt the perfume of trade, above the newsagent-cum-grocery shop his mother and father owned pervading through every nook and cranny of the three-storeyed weather-boarded building that his father never did find time to paint and renovate as he often told his son that he would like to do. Just one of many things that remained unaccomplished in his dad's uneventful, but duplicitous life. The essence of vanilla and pear drops, mingling with soap powders and cheese, spilt milk and disinfectants found space in Fraser's memory, alongside another that carved out his youth and built his character. The marginally dilapidated but essential village store, catering for the needs of the nine hundred or so fellow villagers, had a small-time thief as its owner.

  Always douse the fruit and veg thoroughly with water, son, before you put them out. That way they weigh more than they ought to. And another thing when it comes to weighing. Never leave those brass weights within the reach of customers. I've fiddled with some to them. It's only pennies I know, but it's the small things in life that make the larger ones all the more enjoyable.

  The adherence to the details needed in the art of successful skulduggery aided Fraser throughout his association with the security services and the long-running partnership with Dicky leading to the shared respect of each other's capabilities. Having Fraser's acquiescence to his proposal, Dicky prayed for the early morning rain that had beset London for the last few days to continue to fall tomorrow and left Louise, walking towards the uncertainty that awaited him.

  At five minutes past five o'clock the narrow front door of number sixteen Shepherd Market was opened from the inside and Dicky came face to face with an incandescent, raging Lord Reginald Beaufort.

  “Ah, it's you! I hope you have an answer to this outrage, Mister director,” he shouted, “and I hope I get my hands around Cardiff's throat within the hour.” His face was drawn tight with his upper lip white with rage.

  “If he thought he'd get money from me then he has an enormous lesson to learn,” he exclaimed, waving his clenched fists at Dicky.

  “My sexual preferences are well known within my collection of friends. I take it you know what I'm talking about, Smith. I'm just about holding off accusing you of putting him up to it. Your career is finished along with his if you are involved!”

  Dicky could smell Beaufort's breath and perspiration as he threw the envelope, containing the damning photograph, in his direction. It fluttered rather than slammed to the floor, much to Lord Reginald's dissatisfaction.

  “If that had been Cardiff then he would have gone through to the rat infested basement!” he raged.

  Although the room was well furnished, Lord Reginald was not seated. He preferred to pace up and down with heavy stamping steps. The shapely bottle of Hennessy XO brandy had not been touched nor had the plate of assorted sandwiches, brought from the café across the road.

  “I don't think you are in any position to threaten me, Reginald. It wasn't me captured in a photo buggering Cardiff. Before you start lambasting my department let me offer you a solution to this problem you and your wife have. I know where Cardiff is now and where he'll be later tonight and for the next few days. He will not be in this country, which, if you're sensible about all this, is to your advantage. Shall we sit and parley, or do you want a ridiculous squabble?”

  “So, you are behind it,” Lord Beaufort stated calmly, taking a seat after opening and pouring a glass of brandy. Dicky took a glass and followed suit.

  “I want something, Reginald. Something only you can give me. In exchange I will give you every copy of that photograph that now lies on the floor along with the negatives that we hold. If you don't give me what I ask for then those copies will be sent to every tabloid newspaper in this country and we will keep the negatives. The fact that your appetite for eroticism is known to your fellow participants is of no consequence to me. It will be the astronomical embarrassment it will cause the Royal Family that will end in your downfall.

  You will be dumped quicker than a hot knife slicing through butter and in all probability your peerage will be rescinded. Emigration could be the only solution open to you after you've been blackballed in every respectable club in town. Somewhere in deepest Africa might be best place to consider. Don't look so shocked. Philip might condone what you do in private, but I doubt very much that he, or any other member of the Royal Family, will have a good word for you after the publication. Do you?” He took a large sip from his own glass whilst Lord Reginald tried to gather his thoughts.

  “You're taking a huge risk, Smith. The Palace would slam a D notice on every editor of every paper. Then where will you be?”

  “Even you can't control the European press, old boy, and then of course there are the former Colonies. You know how much America loves our Royal Family. A bit of British rump on the front page of the New York Times will fill their coffers admirably. I might get you on the cover of Vanity Fair with a bit of luck. Your wife might like that. Incidentally, she has a superb body. Everyone said so.”

  “What is that you're after?” Reginald poured himself a second glass.

  “We want to know precisely how you lot are mixed up with one Jack Price, once affiliated
to both my department and the department now chaired by General John Mark Hampton. We want to know where he is, why he's there and how what he's doing impacts on the establishment that you so skilfully preside over.”

  “Never heard of him,” Reginald replied defiantly.

  “Oh dear! I'm obviously not making myself clear enough. That is not the response of a sane man, old sport. Give me what I want then nothing of this sordid affair will ever reach the ears of those you're protecting. You have my word on that. Sit there and commit hara-kiri then I will supply the dagger you can fall on, starting off with tonight's two evening papers, and to avoid your D notice I'll keep you locked in here whilst I do. I know Jack personally. I know him to be patriotic to such an extent that he would die rather than betray this country. And if he did die through betrayal of England he'd rise again to defend the Crown. Whatever he is doing on your behalf he believes passionately in it. His loyalty would, I believe, lead him to kill to cover up anything that besmirches the good name of our Royals. He is too good a man to throw to the wolves, which I suspect maybe an option for you lot.

  Now to the point where your brain comes in, Reginald. He has recruited someone for a particular purpose that I'm not aware of, but I can, and have, guessed what that may be. If you think this whole thing through then there is a way out of this dilemma for both Jack and yourself. If Jack is in New York then that's the place I've sent Cardiff. Cardiff is not of the same material as the man Jack recruited. I want Jack and Patrick West both home safely untarnished by whatever is going on. Cardiff is another matter. If you supply me every detail that I've asked for, old boy, then I concede complete freedom to you to deal with Cardiff however you wish. I'm going to put the question about Jack on hold for a second and start with Gregory Stiles as I believe they're joined at the hip.”

  One and a half hours later nothing remained of two people being cosseted at the address in Shepherd Market. Lord Beaufort caught a cab to Waterloo Station and Dicky took possession of the only tape recording of their conversation. Louise was waiting on his return. She handed him a small brown parcel containing all that he required for the following morning.

  “I've checked the weather report, sir. Light rain starting around five and clearing by eight tomorrow morning,” she reported. He nodded in her direction, but never spoke.

  Signing out in the day book at Century House, he added: Away fishing. Back Sunday if all's well. He smiled at the two porters, sitting behind their desk in the front entrance hall and departed in his departmental car, with Peter in the front beside George his driver.

  “Home, George, and don't spare the horses. You two have a pleasant five days to look forward to without me around to bagger and harass you both. I'm off on a few days' holiday. Have fun, won't you!”

  “No night-watch nor personal security going with you, sir?”

  “No, not necessary, Peter!”

  Not once on that homeward drive did Dicky mention erratic drivers, in fact, he was silent for almost all the journey. He had Tuesday's decoding card on one knee and Fraser's coded message on the other. It was Barrington Trenchard's list of serving police officers who had the Commander of C11 in their back pockets, but there was no contradiction to his answer about how he had known of Jack witnessing the robbery. As George indicated to turn off the motorway, Dicky suddenly asked a question.

  “Why tell a blatant lie if one knows it will be discovered?” The two men in the front looked at one another as though a bolt of lightning had struck the car.

  “Are we expected to answer that, or, were you asking yourself, sir?” It was George who reacted first.

  “Yes, please do answer. All help appreciated.”

  “Maybe if the person telling that lie wants you to know they're lying, sir?” It was Peter who supplied that answer.

  “But why, Peter, why?”

  “Because there's a truth hidden in that lie. Perhaps they want you to find it without making it obvious that it's them telling the truth,” Peter explained not really understanding what he was saying.

  “Or, perhaps the person telling the lie believed it to be the truth.” Dicky thoughtfully replied.

  “You are a grade one bastard, Jack, aren't you. Screwed him twice without him even noticing,” he said aloud, staring out towards the setting sun, to which neither man added a single comment.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Wednesday In London

  Blessed Rain

  The weather forecasters had been correct. There was light rain falling when Dicky, in a brown trench coat and wearing his favourite collapsible matching fishing hat pulled down around his ears, showed his security pass to the disconsolate sentinel at the 'Employees Only' gate set in the rear of Century House. It was five minutes to seven, five more minutes of tedium before the shift changed and War Department Constable number 643 could make his weary way home to Dartford in Kent. The pass was scrutinised, but not Dicky's face. He punched in the security code and passed through the glass doors making his way down three flight of stairs to room number D twenty-five; Catering Accounts/Storage. He unlocked the blue gloss painted door, entered and locked it when inside. He breathed in the musty smell of paper, composed himself then looked around.

  “It's been a long time since I've done anything like that,” he announced with a boyish grin on his face to the two bare wooden tables, one stacked high with an assortment of colour files. “I didn't know I could still do it! In my childhood I would creep into Dad's office holding my breath to steal a boiled sweet from the glass dish on his desk whilst he had his back turned. He never did catch me.”

  “Are we here for your confessional, Sir Richard?” Louise asked as she hung her sodden outer coat over Dicky's on the door coat hanger.

  “Highly unlikely, Louise, far too sordid for your ears! I was simply reminiscing about bygone days. Strange though how things go around in life. I started in the intelligence trade in an office just like this. A couple of tables and files everywhere. Let's hope it does not end it here.”

  “You got away with stealing those sweets, so why think you won't get away with this, sir? I left the flask at home, but brought a small kettle, cups, milk, sugar and teabags instead. Oh, and three cheese and tomato sandwiches for good measure! Would you like a brew now, or shall we wait for Mr Ughert?” The door opened as she spoke.

  “Mr Ughert at your service, Madam. Pour away and by the look of all this we'll be needing plenty more. Where do I sit, sir, and where are the nearest loos!”

  “Have you a car, Fraser?” Dicky asked.

  “Yes, sir, as you instructed. Parked in a council estate within walking distance.” Fraser expression mimicked his two conspirators; the look of excitement and worry children carried when playing truant from school.

  * * *

  Sir Richard's own upbringing was not so far removed from that of Jack's. His family had been in trade, that of book publishing, but not in the upper bracket of that profession. However, his father had met and nurtured associates mainly through his mother's ability to write profitable novels on travel and housekeeping. Those connections had helped Dicky to get a start in his career but not enhanced it to a level that he did not deserve.

  Like Jack, his education had finished at grammar school level, and like Jack, his first days in the SIS were spent in the shadows of his university educated, Surrey residing peers and overlords. There the similarities ended. He worked inside the security services from the start, not as Jack in repeating gossip, but analysing and investigating information from both English speaking nationals and from foreign sources that he came across or were introduced into his circle of interest.

  He was fluent in German, French, Italian and Spanish by the age of twenty-five, joining the staff of the Admiralty in 1935 as a translator at the British Embassy in Madrid, just in time for the civil war that broke out a year later. When Germany invaded Belgium, Dicky was again a naval attaché, this time in that county's British Embassy and was one of the last to leave before landing at Bl
ighty and a slow but steady progress within the secret world. When the war was over, and duties with Twenty Committee ended, he found himself on active field duty in Berlin, spying on contingents of the Red Army occupying most of the city. He came home in 1949 and it was in the summer two years after that recall, when he headed up an obscure department in the newly united intelligence services, that his path crossed one that Jack Price was travelling along. Jack was in London working as a freelance journalist, ostensibly investigating why abandoned military camps were being ignored as sites for the Labour Governments proposed rehousing and rebuilding policy. He had, what Dicky was told, an overactive interest in unused military bases and in particular; HMS Centurion, the empty naval shore establishment at Haslemere, Surrey, forty miles outside of London.

  Jack was propping up the bar in the Wig and Pen Club, opposite the Law Courts in The Strand, engaged in a heated conversation with his companion, a tall brown-haired woman in her forties dressed in a black barrister's gown when Dicky made his entrance.

  “This bloody government needs its arse kicked and I for one won't shed any tears when it's gone. Do you know that even though they're a bunch of lily-livered pacifists we have the second largest standing army in the world and the biggest proportion of national income per head spent on defence outside of America. Our Navy is the largest in the world and the Air Force is not too far short of being the biggest. But when it came down to action, what did they do, I'll tell you, sent a handful of troops to Korea as a token. We had a chance to cut Stalin's head off in '45. Churchill knew that, but Attlee; spineless! They've been banging on about rehousing all those still living in the slums and bomb damaged houses since they were elected. Nothing's been done about it though, has it? Do you know we have still got over two thousand military bases in the UK, most of which aren't being used and never will. Why don't they turn them over to public housing?”