1990

by Wilfred Greatorex

  'That would be nasty,' she replied, silkily. 'Especially as I'm asking you to dinner tonight.'

  'De-bugged and with real meat in the middle?' He began to smile, unaware that Greaves was watching closely.

  'And authentic French asparagus. Special coupon nosh,' she promised.

  'Lucky lady bureaucrat.'

  'I'll get my pinny on then.' There was the suspicion of a giggle before she hung up.

  'Be careful with her,' his old friend cautioned, looking vaguely alarmed, while pushing the radio photographs of the Manuela back into the folder. 'And this free-unloading contact of yours? You sure he's not just a man-eating plant with PCD tentacles?'

  'Sure?' Kyle raised his hands in mock surrender. 'Who's ever sure?'

  Greaves caught the spirit and beamed. 'The Editor will need splints up his backbone to run this story. And the Union shop will be up in arms.'

  Then he called after Kyle, who had taken the file and was on his way, 'Don't gluttonise!'

  'What?'

  'New verb. To scoff with a bureaucrat on special rations. Some Oxford don coined it.'

  The columnist grinned widely. 'One more like that and he'll be on porridge and soya bean cubes in Dartmoor.'

  Men like the Minister of Trade did not reach the top of the new society, especially with the disadvantage of an upper-class background, without extra special qualities; not the least of these being a sixth sense for brewing trouble, plenty of useful friends, and the ability to move fast.

  He had jumped instinctively, hustling into the PCD headquarters with Dan Mellor, like a land mine, in tow.

  'His name's Kyle,' he declared.

  'Again!' Mellor stressed, pointedly.

  'He's not only harassing me, but my wife, my Parliamentary Secretary, the Permanent Secretary in the Department, and he's seeing every enemy I've got,' Burdon continued, plaintively. 'His innuendoes are evil. Evil.'

  Mellor towered over Skardon's desk. 'This muck raker has to be stopped, Herbert. Settle his hash, eh?'

  The PCD Controller twitched. 'You're right, Home Secretary. My finger's on the button already.' He bobbed his head to Burdon. 'Leave it to us, Minister...'

  He sounded obsequious, but, at the same time, stood up and offered his hand. Civil servants of his status decided when most meetings should end in 1990. 'And tell your wife and friends not to worry.'

  'I'm most grateful, Skardon. Most grateful...' Nigel Burdon made the mistake of responding with smooth conceit, as though thanking an old retainer for a small extra service. He turned to shake hands with Mellor. 'Thank you, Dan.'

  The ex-miner waved the gratitude aside and steered him to the door, clapping him jovially on the shoulder as he went out, then turning back to the PCD boss. 'Silly bugger. He's been taking back-handers.'

  'I'll get the Anti-Corruption Inspectors onto him.' Herbert Skardon was genuinely furious.

  The Home Secretary nodded his agreement. 'Not yet, though. Let's get our priorities right. Nail Kyle first.'

  He strolled to the drinks cabinet, opened it and casually extracted a large cigar from the box kept for V.I.Ps.

  'Shouldn't be difficult,' the Controller observed.

  'We can get him for breaches of the Official Secrets Act, Contempt of Government, Anti-State articles, Subversion of His Majesty's Servants...'

  'That's playing into his hands,' the other interrupted. 'Can't you do better than that?'

  Herbert Skardon gave an oily leer. 'Official? Or unofficial?'

  But the Home Secretary was too wise an old fox for that ambush. 'You're the expert, Herbert,' he acknowledged, standing sufficiently close to the small bug on the side of the cabinet for there to be no mistaking his reply.

  The children and their nanny had been spirited away, the heavy curtains drawn, low lights and candles lit, and the flat filled with appetising aromas by the time Kyle arrived.

  Delly Lomas was looking slinky in velvet pants and an almost transparent shirt, knotted under her breasts. She greeted him with affection, allowing his hand to linger on the bare small of her back as she led the way to the dining alcove. There, she talked with animation and wit over the succulent asparagus and mayonnaise. By the time the marinated loin of pork was served, hints of minor scandals among her colleagues were being tantalizingly dropped into the conversation.

  Kyle felt amused and bemused. 'I'm not sure if you're out to smash me or seduce me. I mean it's a bit Cordon Bleu for a Last Supper.'

  She wrinkled her nose, teasingly. 'Maybe the wine's poisoned.'

  'I know it's duty free,' he emphasized. 'As if you didn't have enough perks of office.'

  'I'd have settled for less,' she admitted.

  'With respect, darling, you're worth less,' he taunted, then relented. 'But not as a cook.'

  '"Or as a mistress" is what your eyes are saying.' She confronted him boldly.

  He raised his glass. 'My will's not signed, but the State takes all, so who cares?'

  'I do...' she said simply.

  Kyle felt a surge of desire. Their eyes met and her lips parted. He reached across the table to put a hand over hers. Unexpectedly caught in her own trap, she found herself torn between warning him of and setting him up as her own victim. Surprised, she felt herself blush.

  'The Department's really after you now, Kyle,' she murmured.

  'They keep trying.' He still held her eyes.

  'The mood's hardening,' she underlined, earnestly.

  'So's my skin.'

  They studied each other for a long moment in the candlelight, before she withdrew her hand and bent to eat again. At least she had tried.

  'Remember Doctor Vickers, Kyle?'

  He remembered very well, but looked vague.

  'Now he's shooting off his mouth across the States, saying what a repressive lot we are.'

  'Naughty lad,' the newsman wagged a finger, before agreeing that he had seen a mention of the speeches in the New York Times and commenting that the man was only trying to put pressure on to get his wife and child out.

  'He's wasting his breath,' she asserted harshly.

  'Don't bank on it.' He drank wine faster than was polite.

  'He's also saying more than is wise about the man who got him out.'

  'This bloke the American Press calls Pimpernel 1990?' Kyle's brain had swivelled rapidly away from all thoughts of seduction.

  'They make him sound romantic,' the woman sneered.

  'I'd not mind interviewing him,' he needled.

  'Neither would we. We are off the record, Kyle...'

  He nodded; wondering where this was leading.

  'I saw a summary from our Washington office today of what Vickers has said about the man who got him out, bits from several speeches and interviews.' She was contemplating him, steadily. 'Pieced together we get an image of a thirty-five year old with blue eyes, dark hair, of medium build, Leeds-based. Now all that could be the exact opposite of...'

  'Very likely,' Kyle put in, easily.

  'He's also very mercenary, we hear.' She took his plate and busied herself unnecessarily with the dishes. 'Suppose I were to ask you to get a friend out for a whacking great fee?'

  Kyle poured himself another glass of wine, thoughtfully. Then, 'I'd say, "Keep your wallet zipped tight, mate, till you've made a packet over there".'

  A fork dropped with a little crash onto the china. 'That's just what Vickers says this over-rated Pimpernel told him.'

  The columnist gave her a slow, loving smile. 'It's a right old cliche. Anyone would say it.'

  'I don't agree.' She sounded fierce.

  He leaned out and held her wrist as she began to move past him towards the kitchen. She looked down with an expression of regret and need, before drawing away.

  'You never do,' he said.

  She had taken the afternoon off to prepare for this evening and so knew nothing of the visit by Burdon and Mellor to her boss, nor that the Chief Emigration Officer had been summoned to headquarters even before the elevator carrying the H
ome Secretary had reached the ground floor.

  The Controller waited late at the office and was looking out over the dark city when Nichols arrived. He turned and apologised for causing him the rush journey from Southampton and the man looked pleased that the Head of the PCD knew about the cruise ship there, currently being investigated for illegal emigrants.

  'I thought the Celtic was full of our worthwhile people?' Skardort probed.

  'Nine out of ten passengers are civil servants,' the other confirmed. 'It's the crew that's up to no good. They got fourteen illegals out last trip.'

  'And how many have they bunged in the rats' quarters this time?' was the next query.

  The officer drew himself to attention and asserted, proudly, 'Reason to believe, sir, twelve, with more to board. I'd like to be there when we ferret 'em out.'

  But Herbert Skardon shook his head. 'I have something more urgent and important, Jack. Total warrant.' He made an exception and poured a drink for his subordinate. 'Name Kyle mean anything?'

  'The hack?' Nichols took the glass and looked suitably flattered.

  'Full strip off,' instructed his boss. 'Down to the fig leaf.'

  'I'd have thought that a job for the Culture Inspectors,' the Emigration Officer remarked. 'What's Tony Judd going to say?'

  Skardon instantly regretted the drink. 'I'm Controller here, Jack,' he snapped. 'Leave Judd to me. He didn't hold back when those illegals were getting out with the National Theatre Company. Now you can have one on a plate. Officially, you're looking for evidence that Kyle's into the emigration rackets.'

  'And he's not?' Nichols was thorough, but endowed with limited intelligence.

  'No, he's been nosing into the private enterprises of our Minister of Trade, the Right Honourable Nigel Burdon, Privy Councillor et cetera.'

  'But that's not what my search warrant's about?' The Emigration Officer said, doggedly.

  'You've got it!' Skardon confirmed with relief, then walked up to stand directly in front of the man, in order to spell it out. 'I don't want Kyle yelling blue murder to the hacks of the world's Press about jack-boots marching down Fleet Street, any more than I want even a hint that Kyle's been digging dirt about our spotless Minister of Trade.'

  'But we are after Burdon?' Nichols was beginning to look like an enthusiastic beagle, eyes brightening, jowels quivering and nose damp.

  'After, being the word. After Kyle,' Skardon decreed, carefully. 'I want Kyle. I need him badly, Jack. Legs wide open. And I don't want him in the martyrs' hall of fame. I want him to pay us respect. I want evidence that he's just a grasping mercenary. I want him nailed once and for all.'

  'Right away?' His man looked a little less keen.

  Skardon nodded.

  'Only I was planning to see North Region play Moscow Dynamo in the New Europe Cup in Manchester before our snatch at Southampton.'

  The PCD Controller returned deliberately to his desk, placed both hands heavily on it and leaned forward. 'Violent sport, soccer,' he said at last, very slowly. 'They break shins, don't they, Jack?'

  There was no mistaking the menace.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  They hardly bothered to knock. Just a token rap before pushing into the office and crossing to the filing cabinets next to Marly's desk. Jack Nichols stood stolidly in the doorway, as his men began rummaging in the drawers.

  'Who are you?' Marly jumped to her feet.

  'PCD, Ma'am.' He was officially polite.

  'No!' she cried, moving towards the intruders.

  'Miss, then,' he smirked.

  'Citizen 6392244,' she corrected, in an unshaken Northern accent. 'And these files are confidential.'

  'Nice number you've got.' He became ingratiating.

  She locked the second filing cabinet briskly and stood against it, a small, staunch, middle-aged woman refusing to be bullied.

  One of the PCD men tried to snatch the key from her, pushing her against the wall as he did so.

  'Leave her alone, Murray,' his leader ordered in a tough voice, indicating to the other to deal with that particular cabinet. The man produced a miniature thermal lance and began work, forcing the lock with little effort.

  Frightened now, though hiding it successfully, Marly returned to her desk with dignity and picked up the telephone. Tiny Greaves entered the room at that moment.

  'You bloody pigs!'

  'I could have you charged for that insulting remark about His Majesty's officers, Greaves,' the Chief Emigration Officer bridled, guarding the authority of his position with a paranoid aggression resulting from a lifetime of affronts from the public.

  The huge news editor viewed him as though he was a maggot in a dung heap and drawled, 'Charge me then.'

  Jack Nichols' eyes slid away towards Marly, who had buttoned out a number.

  'If that's Kyle you're calling, I hope you find him,' he snarled, sarcastically. 'He's the original vanishing man.'

  His subordinates were turning out the files, flipping through each, then shaking the contents carelessly onto the floor, their search deliberately wanton and malicious.

  The number rang out at the other end of the line. It stopped and the secretary heard Delly Lomas answer, 'Highgate Special Line twenty two...' before she asked for her boss.

  Then his voice, 'Yes, Marly.'

  She looked helplessly at the chaos of papers now covering her office floor and her voice trembled. 'The PCD are here. Your papers...it's vandalism.'

  'All right, Marly,' he responded, reassuringly. 'There's nothing in that room to interest them.'

  'They're ruining our files!' she exclaimed in agitation.

  'Put the fattest pig on the line, love,' he directed in a calm tone, which belied his protective rage over her distress.

  They had worked together for many years and he had learnt to admire her perfectionism, and respect her extensive knowledge of the newspaper business. Bank managers, bores and bigots were kept at bay by her and he had never heard her sound alarmed before. She gave him total loyalty and now, when she needed his in return, he felt ashamed at being discovered socialising with a PCD Deputy Controller.

  'Kyle?' A man's voice queried the line. 'Inspector Nichols here.'

  'Emigration?' He was taken aback.

  'I have total warrant, Kyle.'

  'You usually do!' the journalist exploded, throwing down the receiver and whirling to face Delly Lomas. 'You keep me here while your animals wreck my office. Lovely lady!'

  'I don't know what you're on about,' she frowned, baffled. 'You're here because you had too much wine last night.'

  He had crossed the room and snatched his jacket. 'You can't miss the 1990 award.'

  'I'm sorry?'

  'Bitch of the Year!' he spat and slammed from the room.

  Immediately, she pressed a red button on the phone, the direct line to the Controller's office. Within seconds he was replying, coldly, 'Yes, Miss Lomas. I authorised it...'

  'Without reference,' she pointed out, justifiably annoyed. 'Kyle's my responsibility.'

  'And normally with my kind regards, Miss Lomas,' he agreed, levelly. 'But not this time. Nichols has a job to do.'

  'Nichols? We have something on Kyle over illegals?' Something was up! What was it she wondered to herself.

  'Not yet,' Skardon was saying, gropingly, as though making up his answer as he went along. 'I have Nichols in mind for the third Deputy Controller post alongside you and Tasker. I'm trying him out on something other than Emigration Control.'

  'That's the real reason?' Not believing a word of it. What had happened in her absence? Tasker! It had to be one of Tasker's moves.

  'I think you'd best come in,' the Controller instructed and hung up abruptly.

  Delly put the phone down slowly and lit a cigarette. She looked unusually apprehensive.

  By the time Kyle reached his office, the PCD squad was already on its way out of London, Jack Nichols driving the high-powered official car hard down the motorway.

  'People can stay too long
hugging a desk at Centre, Evans,' he observed to the man beside him. He was full of a sense of achievement over the morning's work. Even that gross, insolent news editor had been forced to acknowledge his control. It was good to show trouble-makers like him who held the essential power. 'Give me the real thing like this any time.'

  'More fun, yes, sir,' the man beside him agreed. 'But they should give us uniforms.'

  'You're an emigration officer, Evans. A cut above Customs,' asserted his superior. 'Look what uniforms have done for Customs officers. People hate 'em.'

  'And us, sir,' Evans commented, recalling Greaves' instinctive outburst.

  Nichols overtook a couple of trundling vehicles with panache. The PCD van carrying the rest of his men and equipment was trailing behind. He smiled. 'When they know who we are.'

  'Oh indeed, sir,' the official agreed, settling comfortably into the passenger seat and watching signposts to suburban towns off the motorway flash by. 'Much farther?'

  'Twelve miles or so.'

  Like Jack Nichols, Evans felt slightly exhilarated. The two men could not wait to do their duty.

  Meanwhile, following their visit to his office, Kyle had begun helping Marly to restore order and was biting his lip in suppressed fury as he noticed her fighting tears and rummaging aimlessly amid the debris. Currents of violence shook him. He wanted to smash somebody, beat them up and kick them to pulp. Anybody.

  Tiny Greaves walked into the office, looking hopeless.

  'And where did our brave Editor-in-Chief cower?' the columnist quizzed him malignantly about their boss. 'In the loo?'

  'Out late last night, at dinner with the Minister of Information. In late this morning,' the news editor replied.

  'I'm writing this up. He'd better run it,' the other declared, grabbing a handful of crumpled and torn letters.

  'He won't. He can't. No way, Kyle,' Greaves answered. 'Nichols served us with a G Notice forbidding publication under the rule protecting persons under suspicion.'

  'That's me!' snapped the thwarted journalist.

  Greaves rested against one of the tipped out filing cabinets, which creaked in protest, and drummed his fingers on the metal. 'They're protecting you from yourself, Kyle. You can't write a line about this in your own interest.' He shook his head sympathetically at Marly, now kneeling over the havoc on the floor. 'Our pens aren't mightier than their sword, Kyle. They're bloody water pistols. I was a pacifist till this morning.'