by Thomas Waugh
Devlin argued that this would be his final job. But he sounded about as convincing as a barfly who had just declared that he had taken his last drink. Maybe he was fated to never find peace. He was, like Coriolanus drenched in blood, drenched in too much sorrow and sin. He missed his wife too much. The widowed lovebird doesn’t sing. Porter had been worried in the past that, wearied with taking other lives, Devlin would one day ultimately take his own. At first Porter was concerned that he would lose an asset. But now he was concerned that he would lose a friend.
9.
Maria directed Devlin to where Porter was sitting, in a quiet corner of the club. A large Glenmorangie on a coaster was also waiting for him at the table. Porter finished off his gin and tonic and requested another. He couldn’t help but notice how the bags under Devlin’s eyes were more pronounced. His hair, despite being relatively cut short, was uncharacteristically unkempt – and his shirt hadn’t been crisply ironed, compared to the day before. He’s fraying. Perhaps he’s having doubts and second thoughts about the job. But it was in hope more than expectation that Porter thought Devlin would alter his course – even if he knew he was about to sail off the edge of the world.
Deep-throated laughter sounded from an adjacent room, where a party of people – consisting of politicians, senior civil servants, journalists and political lobbyists – were having lunch. More than one guest had spotted Porter as he entered the club. At first, he was accosted by the political hack Simon Wendle, the son of Sir Anthony Wendle, the former Labour cabinet minister and MP for Sunderland. Ampleforth, and living in the shadow of a brilliant but emotionally retarded father, had damaged him. Tony Benn had once said that Simon Wendle would go far. In Benn’s defence, it wasn’t the only thing the diarist got wrong in his life. The journalist and political commentator sat by the phone each morning, waiting for an editor at The Guardian or a producer at Sky News to call him. He could have a fervent opinion on anything, for a modest fee. Wendle had taken to spending his afternoons at the Savile of late, in order to supplicate the great and the good who were also members of the Garrick, to nominate him for membership of the more prestigious club. Wendle sawed the air with his hands, like a bad actor, when he spoke – or rather pontificated. He sounded like Brian Sewell, sucking on a lemon. And looked like Ben Bradshaw, after a pub crawl. His palms glistened with sweat or oil from his slicked-back hair, Porter observed. The fixer smiled politely and duly pretended to be interested in his morsels of outdated gossip and latest newspaper column. Like a wasp noticing a brighter bloom however, Wendle excused himself from Porter’s company when he observed a close friend of Paul Dacre enter the club. His last words were to promise to have lunch with Porter soon. “Why don’t we go to the Garrick? You are still a member, aren’t you?”
Before Porter had time to draw breath, or sigh, he was approached by Walter Leach, the new Tory MP for Welwyn Hatfield. Half a dozen years ago, unbeknownst to Leach, Porter had been asked by a cabal from the 1922 committee to dissuade him from running as a Conservative candidate in a key by-election. Employing an intermediary Porter forced Leach to withdraw from the race by blackmailing him with knowledge of the businessman’s tax affairs. Ironically, two years later, Porter was asked to work on Leach’s campaign when he ran for parliament in a marginal seat in Somerset. This time Porter leaked news of a Labour candidate’s extra-marital gay affair to the press. “Red Ted Beds Young Black Fred in Garden Shed,” isn’t a headline that’s easy to come back from in Frome. And he didn’t.
And so Walter Leach entered office. Porter had recently read a profile of the MP:
“He’s like Michael Fabricant, but with slightly tidier hair… or a slightly more honest Grant Schapps… crossed with a slightly more intelligent Nikki Morgan and less self-serving Michael Gove. Indeed, Walter Leach may have been created in a lab to produce the best, or worst, Tory politician known to man.”
As much as Leach had recently preached how he was working night and day to save his local hospital from closure – as well as working every hour to secure the best Brexit possible – the member of parliament for Welwyn Hatfield was far more concerned about how much his wife would take from him in the divorce settlement.
“I would greatly appreciate your advice at some point Oliver. My lawyers are proving to be far too scrupulous. I need to know how best to hide my assets, else she’ll fleece me of everything. She just wants to leave me with the flat in London, which I haven’t had time to properly flip yet. I also don’t want her to use the money set aside for my boy’s education to go towards paying for a new pair of tits and a ghastly Audi TT. She may be playing the victim in the press. But if you watch carefully enough, when she wipes away the tears, you’ll see the bitch has claws instead of fingers.”
Porter offered Leach a vague promise that they would discuss things in more detail soon but then excused himself:
“I apologise, Walter, but I need to meet someone downstairs. I’m late and he may already be here.”
“Oh, sorry. Is it urgent or can you spare a few more minutes?”
“You might say it’s a matter of life or death. But it concerns something even more important than that. Lots of money,” Porter said, whilst rubbing his hands together, grinning sumptuously and forcing a coin-like glint into his eye.
Leach replied by chortling and nodding his head in approval.
“Well let me know if I can do anything in the House to help proceedings.” He then disappeared into the direction of the bar, to expense another drink.
Porter walked off in the opposite direction, wryly or woefully thinking to himself how the Savile used to be home to the likes of Charles Darwin and Kipling. But nowadays the club was populated by lawyers, hedge fund managers and media consultants. They hung around the place like harpies or gargoyles, perched on gothic cathedrals.
God help us.
Porter passed the memory stick and hotel key card to Devlin.
“No doubt you’ll scrutinize the information later but I thought I might give you some of the highlights now. Your friend Rameen worked his way up, or down, from rapist to politician. Several years ago, his father gave the Karzai government a substantial bribe so his son could serve as a trade delegate and diplomat. Suffice to say he uses his diplomatic pouch to transport a variety of opiates around the world, as opposed to any official papers. He has also used his diplomatic status to grant him immunity against rape, criminal damage various and traffic violations. MI5 put him under surveillance at the beginning of the week. So far, our esteemed Afghani trade delegate has assaulted two escorts from the comfort of his hotel suite. They were paid off however and told to keep their mouths shut, although that will prove easy for one poor girl it seems as he broke her jaw. He usually wakes just after midday and goes shopping. He’s spent more time in Harrods’s this week than a footballer’s wife. He has attended one or two scheduled meetings with trade representatives but “the devout Muslim” – as he’s been described on his government’s website - has been either drunk or high when he’s done so.”
Devlin’s jaw became squarer as he compressed his teeth together. Determination, rather than moral outrage, shaped his features. He tapped his fingers on the table in front of him, restless and eager to pull the trigger on the target. He wanted to feel the recoil of his gun again. The sensation would jolt through his arm and maybe jumpstart something in his heart.
“What does the file say about his security detail?”
“He has come over with two trained security personnel. They will be armed. When they are with him in the hotel suite though they may well be getting high. Our government has generously provided him with some additional security, albeit the file states that they only accompany their charge when he is scheduled to leave the hotel. As you will notice though the intelligence isn’t altogether up-to-date. What with being painfully under resourced, MI5 have moved the surveillance team to another person of interest.”
“Do we know why he’s in London? Is there any intelligence that
suggests links to terrorism?”
“I’ll come to that in a moment. Ostensibly our honoured guest is in town to negotiate a trade deal, with an Anglo-American pharmaceutical conglomerate, for his father’s opium crop. Most of the crop will of course still be set aside for less law-abiding cartels. In return DFID, as a sweetener to seal the deal, will be re-directing a large part of its Afghan aid budget into Hakim Jamal’s bank account. Oh, what a tangled web we weave, the British government should say to itself. But, alas, all too often it doesn’t. But in regards to Rameen he is too much of a liability to be invited into the inner circles of terrorist networks. He is about as likely to tie-up a terrorist attack as he is his shoelaces. The real target on Five’s watch list this week was his fellow trade delegate, one Faisal Ahmadi. There is intelligence from MI6 on the file I’ve just given you. As a teenager, he fought in the ranks of the mujahedeen against the Russians, working with the CIA to distribute Stinger missiles to jihadists throughout his province. It seems Ahmadi is as forgiving as a Christian however, as he now works alongside his former enemy to provide intelligence about the US to the Russians. Ahmadi is known for his predilections of sitting in on torture sessions and grooming boys. But he doesn’t drink and is duly called a “dedicated Muslim” on his government’s website. As well as serving as Hakim Jamal’s right-hand man, Ahmadi is also responsible for running a network of people smugglers. Partly he does so for money. He’s only human, as well as being monster, after all. Let us not gild the lily and deem them political refugees. Smugglers are principally transporting economic migrants across Europe. Young Muslim men. And for every hundred economic migrants Ahmadi’s associates smuggles into London, Paris and Brussels, he is also smuggling half a dozen agents of Islamic State into the West. During the course of this week he has had meetings with a handful of Imams, who are known to work as recruiters for Isis. Although they may preach a message of peace to their flocks in the Midlands, they also take the wolves aside and encourage them to bare their teeth. Under the guise of charitable donations Ahmadi provides funds for the Imans to expand their operations and out-reach programmes through mosques. He has links as well to the Saudis and, using his diplomatic status, serves as a mule – delivering money and instructions to special interest groups in the UK who lobby for the introduction of Sharia law in designated parts of the country. The hotel will need to change the carpet after the stain Jamal leaves, so you won’t be inconveniencing The Ritz too much if you retire Ahmadi as well. Indeed, you’ll be doing the world a veritable favour. I suspect the security services might even give you a medal, rather than prison sentence, if they apprehend you.”
Porter glanced at up a frowsty looking portrait of Palmerston hanging on the opposite wall, looking down on them. He imagined the portrait coming to life, with the statesman offering Devlin an encouraging pat on the shoulder and conspiratorial wink.
“I’ll be sure to introduce myself to the dedicated Muslim,” Devlin replied, evenly. He had already determined that he would take down any of Rameen’s personal security in the suite, when he met with his target.
“You will need to do so soon. The pair are due to fly back to Kabul before the beginning of next week. Have you set a time for the job yet?”
“Tomorrow night.”
The words cut through the air and came to a dead stop like a guillotine. Although there was a finality to his tone Porter still wanted to give Devlin – and himself – a way out.
“You still have time to change your mind. Nature will take care of the snake sooner or later. He’ll either kill himself through an overdose, or upset the wrong person. I am sure that your friend, Birch, wouldn’t think less of you if you didn’t keep your promise. A promise you made, in extraordinary circumstances, over a decade ago.”
“He would. And so would I.”
Maria interrupted the sterile silence. Porter ordered a couple more drinks. By mutual, unspoken, agreement the two men chose not to talk about the job. Instead the pair discussed the recent Test Match at Lords and asked about the latest history books they had read. Porter had just worked his way through Robert Tombs’ The English and Their History. “He makes a salient point on nigh on every page… The book should be put on every syllabus in the country. Which is why it won’t be.” In reply Devlin mentioned how he had re-read Ronald Syme’s The Roman Revolution. Porter remembered studying the text during his time at Magdalen. Augustus Caesar had brought peace and stability to Rome not because of his willingness to compromise and forgive – but rather because he defeated all his enemies. There were no pieces left on the board to justify playing the game anymore. When asked about deciding the fate of Julius Caesar’s murderers the young Octavius had answered, flatly, “They must die”. No doubt that chapter resonated with Devlin, Porter mused.
The sun throbbed, as if it were in pain, as the two friends stood upon the steps of the club, on Brook St.
“Just get in touch if you need anything. Let’s have another drink when it’s all over. I’ve got a bottle of Dalmore I’ve been saving for a special occasion. We need to celebrate our retirement. Again.”
“I’m grateful for your help, Oliver. I owe you,” Devlin remarked, with a splinter of emotion in his throat.
“Nonsense. You don’t owe me, or anyone else. They’ll be no need for you to say “give a cock to Alcibiades,” Devlin warmly replied, making reference to Socrates’ last words – to indicate that all his debts, real and metaphysical, had been paid.
Devlin nodded and offered up a fleeting, wry half-smile. The quote prompted him to remember his favourite line from Plato:
“Be kind, because everyone out there is facing a hard battle.”
Devlin still valued Plato’s words and the idea of kindness. But he didn’t want to dwell too much on them at present. He had murder on his mind.
There was little left to say. Porter squeezed Devlin’s forearm in a fraternal, or even paternal, gesture. His muscles tensed up at first, but then relaxed – like someone surrendering to a needful embrace.
Porter squinted in the light but his expression remained pinched – pained – for a different reason. He lingered on the steps as Devlin walked away, his head lowered – fishing through his pockets for his headphones, to listen to music. The cynical fixer was not usually prone to sentiment or superstition but he was momentarily gripped by a dreadful presentiment. That something would go awry with the job. A few atoms in Porter’s heart wanted to chase after Devlin. Grab him by the lapels of his jacket. Shake some sense into him. Tell him he was insane or being more conceited than a poet. He wanted to come out with a poignant, or hackneyed phrase, to cause him to think twice: “Love is not a disease but a cure.” Emma could save Devlin, in the same way Victoria saved him. But it wasn’t Porter’s way to raise his voice, make a scene or lose his composure. Sangfroid. Englishness needed to be preserved. Porter didn’t want to raise any eyebrows, although he realised that he didn’t give a damn about the good and the great of the Savile Club compared to Devlin. Besides, Porter was ninety-nine percent sure that there wasn’t anything he could have said or done to alter Devlin’s course. He may as well try and change the past.
We are where we are.
10.
Devlin walked briskly down New Bond St, weaving his way through the throng of shoppers, his forehead pleated in thought. He kept his head bowered down, not wishing to look anyone in the eye. He purposely didn’t listen to any songs on “Holly’s Playlist.” He always felt uncomfortable thinking about her when planning a job.
A statuesque blonde, with the hint of a Russian accent, asked him for a light, as she tucked a ringlet of hair behind her ear. She smiled invitingly. A cream, lace-hemmed summer dress swayed above sun-burnished thighs and Christian Louboutin heels. Maybe she was an escort. Maybe she liked the way he looked. Maybe she could see into his soul and shared his love of Chekhov. Or maybe she just wanted a light. She was attractive. But not beautiful. Holly was beautiful. Devlin politely let the woman down, albeit he was tempted
to ask for a cigarette in return.
He walked on.
“When you think that you’ve lost everything
You find out you can always lose a little more
I’m just goin’ down the road feeling bad
Tryin’ to get to heaven before they close the door.”
His phone vibrated with a message from Birch, asking for an update. It wasn’t the first message of its kind he had received in the past few days – and it wouldn’t be the last. Devlin felt like he had a Jiminy Cricket-type figure on his shoulder, although Birch couldn’t have exactly been considered the voice of his conscience.
*
Devlin met Tyerman in the bar of the Cavalry & Guard’s Club, on Piccadilly. Tyerman got up from his Chesterfield chair and strode across the room to greet his former squaddie. He shook his hand – vigorously – and looked him squarely in the eye as he told Devlin how good it was to see him again. Despite having left the army five years ago, Charles Tyerman still retained his military gait and bearing. His back was ramrod straight. His chin jutted out like the white cliffs of Dover. His hair was now mostly iron grey, streaked with black. Tyerman’s default expression was still as serious – or severe even – as Devlin remembered. Although from the outset he knew that the Colonel’s heart was in the right place. He genuinely cared for the welfare of his men, which was more than could be said for his counterparts in Whitehall. As much as he valued discipline his decency shone through as brightly as the brass buttons on his dress uniform. Tyerman gave a lecture to each batch of new recruits who arrived in Helmand. He revealed how, if he hadn’t signed-up, he would have been a History teacher. During his monthly newsletter to the regiment he would include quotes from Horace, Gibbon and Ralph Waldo Emerson, among others. As a result, Tyerman was a far more well-rounded and cerebral officer than many of his martinet colleagues. And Devlin respected him for it. He respected him for the conviction in his voice and fervour in his eyes when he said that, should Jamal come into his own sights too, he would kill the man who had taken the life of one of his young soldiers. More than most, Tyerman was a good and honourable man, Devlin conceded.