by Hugh Miller
‘The tentative verdict is that vast quantities of various high-grade drugs have passed through the house, but there is no evidence of long-term storage.’
‘Then the farm is nothing but a waystage?’ Ram said.
‘Correct. But if there is anything here to provide a link with the source of supply, then these are the men to find it.’
‘And do you believe they will?’
‘No, I don’t,’ Philpott said. ‘Drug people are as devious as we are, they bury their tracks deep. But we’ve agitated them, and they won’t have missed this classy show of intent. They know that we’re trouble, and the worst kind.’
24
The techniques-and-procedures review was called for ten o’clock in the Dag Hammarskjöld room on the third floor of the UN Secretariat building. The Secretary General was in Switzerland; a deputy, Sarah Lawrence, a quietly-dressed young specialist in international law, sat in for him. Also at the long table at the far end of the room was Thomas Lubbock, Director of Policy Control, and beside him Secretary Crane. Three lawyers sat at a smaller table on the right of the room and C.W. Whitlock sat opposite, under the tall window, the sunlight on his back.
‘Every person having business with this review is now present,’ a clerk announced.
Without rising, Thomas Lubbock put the case for the Department of Policy Control.
‘In February this year, a search of a deceased hotel porter’s apartment in Greenwich Village uncovered a photograph of Malcolm Philpott, the Director of the United Nations Anti-Crime Organization.’
The clerk passed the picture to Sarah Lawrence.
‘Written on the back of the picture is Philpott’s name and his title within the UN.’
Lubbock was a pink-faced man with tiny jowls that trembled when he spoke. He turned now to look at Ms Lawrence.
‘To anyone concerned about security standards within the UN,’ he said, ‘it is troubling that such a picture should be found among the property of a humble working man. Humble is an adjective that sits well on the dead man, whose name was Arno Skuttnik. He was an immigrant with no criminal record, a man who kept to himself and roused no special curiosity in all the years he lived in New York. We have no way of knowing how he came by the photograph of Mr Philpott, or what use he intended to make of it, if any. The whole point is, the man was able to get that picture, which underlines the point, made several times in the past by my department, that UNACO has become so loosely controlled that everyday security has broken down.’
Sarah Lawrence nodded. ‘And what does the Department of Policy Control suggest?’
‘Immediate corrective measures,’ Lubbock said.
Ms Lawrence nodded again. ‘Would you specify?’
Lubbock glanced at Whitlock, who was listening attentively. ‘Since its inception, UNACO has enjoyed a measure of autocracy. The Director is answerable only to the Head of the Security Council, and to the Secretary General. UNACO’s various task forces, covert surveillance units, intelligence gathering bodies and its international liaison networks are administered without reference to any other bodies within the tightly unified structure of the UN.’
‘We know that much already,’ Ms Lawrence said.
‘It is our proposal,’ Lubbock continued, ‘that UNACO be brought under the UN’s conventional umbrella of set procedures and accountability. The Director should be answerable in the first instance to myself and should have no direct access to the Head of the Security Council or the Secretary General. Furthermore, UNACO’s activities should be open to scrutiny by my own officers and representatives of departments directly involved in funding, strategy and personnel deployment.’
Sarah Lawrence glanced at her notepad. ‘So let’s get it in a nutshell, Mr Lubbock. You propose that in view of certain evidence of laxity in the running of UNACO, the organization be pulled into line and forfeit its special status as a semi-autonomous body. Does that cover it?’
‘That’s more or less it,’ Lubbock said.
Ms Lawrence looked at the lawyers. They nodded.
‘Well now, Mr Whitlock.’ Sarah Lawrence smiled coolly. ‘I understand you’re appearing here on behalf of Mr Philpott, who is detained in foreign parts.’
‘That’s correct, ma’am.’
‘Your purpose here, as I see it, is to try to dissuade the Secretary General’s Office of the United Nations from actioning the restrictive measures proposed by the Director and Secretary of Policy Control against the organization for which you work, namely UNACO. Is that how you view it?’
‘Indeed it is.’ Whitlock stood up.
Ms Lawrence pointed to the lectern standing three metres from the table where she and the others sat. ‘If you’d like to come forward, I’m all ears.’
Whitlock brought his notes and stood for a moment with his hands on either side of the lectern, looking at each of the people before him in turn.
‘First of all, I want to say that the administration of UNACO does not deny that the photograph of Director Philpott was found in the property of a deceased hotel porter. It is not denied, either, that the finding of the picture could be seen to indicate slackness in UNACO’s security arrangements.’
Secretary Crane looked down with a tight smile. Whitlock did not miss that.
‘UNACO does, however, refute any allegations of laxness or irresponsibility on the part of its administration or its operatives.’
Now it was Lubbock who looked down, shaking his head.
‘We are aware,’ Whitlock went on, ‘that a simple denial is hardly a defence. It will be my purpose, therefore, as briefly as possible, to show that not only is UNACO the world’s premier crime-fighting body, but that its integrity and efficiency far surpass those of lesser outfits who cover their own shortcomings by pointing the finger — in this case, a sadly mistaken finger — at others.’
Lubbock looked as if he had been personally attacked. Crane had turned red.
‘Mr Lubbock has told us something about the dead man who was harbouring the picture of Director Philpott. In fact, Mr Lubbock has told us everything that he and his department could find out about the dead man, which isn’t much. The deceased’s name was Arno Skuttnik, he came to this country in the sixties, he led a quiet, law-abiding life. That’s it.’
‘If I might point out, Ms Lawrence,’ Lubbock cut in, ‘there is nothing else on the record that is of any significance.’ He shot a glance at Whitlock. ‘It isn’t our habit, as it may be with certain others, to pad out our case with inconsequential detail.’
Ms Lawrence waited to see if Lubbock had more to say, but he had withdrawn into tight-lipped staring. She nodded for Whitlock to continue.
‘When Secretary Crane brought the picture and the scanty story surrounding it to the attention of Director Philpott,’ Whitlock said, ‘it was decided that a thorough investigation should be mounted.’
He could see this was news to Lubbock and Crane. They glanced at each other and looked quickly back at their folded hands.
‘In spite of what Mr Lubbock just said, there is a lot of fascinating and significant detail in the history of Arno Skuttnik. With your indulgence, I would like to tell his story.’
Lubbock sighed noisily. ‘Ms Lawrence, is this really necessary?’
‘Mr Whitlock is essaying a rebuttal of what you told us,’ Ms Lawrence said. ‘On the face of it, I’d say it’s important.’ She nodded at C.W. ‘Please go on.’
Whitlock looked at his notes for a moment, then he said, ‘Arno Skuttnik was a spy.’
Ms Lawrence looked at Lubbock, who looked at Crane, who was gaping at Whitlock.
‘He was brought up and educated in Moscow, where his father, a Pole, was an inspector of factories. At the age of nineteen Arno was already a Kremlin discipline officer, which means he beat up political dissidents for a living, and by the time he was twenty-two he was a member of Stalin’s private staff.’
‘Can you prove any of this?’ Crane snapped.
‘Sure,’ Whitlock said.
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Lubbock said, ‘How did you come by this information?’
‘I used means that go beyond your need-to-know status. But I can easily demonstrate the authenticity of the data to the Secretary General and his staff.’
Lubbock’s neck was turning purple.
‘And so,’ Whitlock said, ‘we are already in a position where it’s clear that no ordinary — or to use Mr Lubbock’s description, humble - individual, was in possession of Director Philpott’s picture. The man in question was a highly-trained Soviet agent, a ranking member of the People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs, who eventually came to America to spy for the Soviets in 1966.’
‘I don’t believe any of this!’ Crane said. ‘It’s a ridiculous smokescreen!’
Whitlock picked up a folder with a clipped wad of papers inside. ‘Maybe we can dispose of further doubts on the point, Ms Lawrence. These are printout versions of all this information, together with details of sources. Perhaps you’d like to peruse it as I go along.’
‘Thank you, Mr Whitlock.’ The clerk handed the papers across. Ms Lawrence looked along the table. ‘Try to keep your contributions positive, Mr Crane. Petulant outbursts use up time and they’re entirely counter-productive.’ She nodded for Whitlock to continue.
‘Skuttnik’s in-place handler in New York was Adam Korwin, whose standing as a Soviet spy-master is well known among members of our own intelligence community. What is less well known is something I only recently learned: in the mid-seventies Korwin suffered a stroke. At that time Arno Skuttnik was a sleeper, working a six-day week on a garbage disposal truck in Brooklyn.
‘After the stroke Korwin believed he could still control agents and deploy espionage talent, but apparently Russia had by then accepted the obvious. Korwin was a nice old man, good at keeping out of trouble, but as far as spying went, he had lost it. Skuttnik and a few others remained sleepers without guidance, much less motivation. What’s more, Skuttnik began to enjoy the American way of life, although at the same time he longed, in a passive kind of way, to be of some service to the USSR. Korwin kept in touch with him but no assignments were floated.
‘I will summarize the other significant details of Skuttnik’s life as tightly as I can. In 1970 he married a woman who knew nothing of his double life. They had a daughter the following year. The wife died tragically young in 1972; the daughter was brought up by Skuttnik with the active assistance of Korwin, to whom the child became very attached. She was raised on good wholesome food and an ideological diet of Marx and Engels. She grew up a dedicated communist.
‘In time she married a schoolteacher, another communist, who three years into the marriage was fired from his post for spreading communist propaganda among school children. He was hounded by the press and by his neighbours and eventually lost his reason and killed himself. This made his wife regard him as a martyr for the cause, and it toughened her own resolve to fight for the survival of a dying regime.’
Whitlock went on to explain that Skuttnik’s daughter had been identified from a recent photograph taken with her father on the occasion of his birthday. Her face was only partially visible on the picture, but careful blowing up of the image made it possible to identify a jacket she wore; the retailer was also the manufacturer, and he had kept a copy of the bill of sale. The design of one of the rings she wore was also used to identify her. It was her engagement ring, which was tracked down to the Armenian jeweller who had made it. Whitlock made no mention of the clinching handwriting on the photograph, since he’d had no official access to the print.
‘I really must interrupt,’ Lubbock said testily. ‘Does this tale of domestic tragedy and tenacious political conviction lead us anywhere?’
‘Oh, indeed it does,’ Whitlock said. ‘And I may say it only exists as a story because unlike Policy Control, who took the word of the police that Arno Skuttnik was of no consequence, we at UNACO took the entire matter seriously. Instead of firing off accusatory remarks or instigating back-stabbing campaigns, we investigated. In depth.’
Whitlock paused. As if she were taking a cue, Sarah Lawrence said, ‘And what did you find, in the end?’
‘We found that a dossier of photographs and basic job descriptions had been assembled from the entire New York base of the United Nations. It was carefully guarded by Arno Skuttnik, even though by now there was no Soviet Union to make use of such an archive.’
‘Hang on!’ Crane shouted. ‘Are you saying there was more than one photograph? If that’s what you’re saying, I hope you can produce the others, and I hope you can prove they were in the possession of Arno Skuttnik.’
‘There was indeed more than one photograph,’ Whitlock said. ‘The single picture found by the police had somehow escaped from the main batch of several hundred. I can produce them.’ Whitlock held up a concertina file. ‘Here they are. They’re all in here. And yes, they were in Skuttnik’s possession. I have the corroboration of three senior NYPD officers, who stood by while I dug up the floor in his room and retrieved them.’
‘How did you know they were there?’ Ms Lawrence said.
‘The person who put together the archive told me. The same person told me all about Arno Skuttnik’s fallow years as a spy, and his gradual absorption into the American way of life. I’m talking about Arno Skuttnik’s daughter, Bridget. Married name Bridget Jones.’
Crane sat back sharply in his chair. Lubbock gave him a puzzled look.
‘Bridget Jones is a clerical officer here at the UN,’ Whitlock said. ‘She works in personnel records, which as you’re aware, Ms Lawrence, is just packed with photographs of UN employees, including all the members of Policy Control, whose pictures are in the illicit archive along with everybody else’s.’
Ms Lawrence was already mumbling into her mobile phone. She put it down after a moment and looked pointedly at Lubbock. ‘Bridget Jones didn’t show up for work yesterday or today,’ she said coldly. ‘There’s no response from her home number, apparently.’
Whitlock squared his notes. ‘I don’t think I have anything to add, except to point out that Mrs Jones’s appointment to the UN was endorsed by, among others, Mr Crane of Policy Control.’
Whitlock turned away from the lectern, then stopped. He faced the long table again.
‘In defence of UNACO’s present administrative and operational arrangements,’ he said, ‘I would add only this. Our freedom from restriction produces a special quality of planning and of procedure, unhampered by the dulling effects of communal policy-making. The record speaks for the success of the regime. Our system nurtures and develops the flowering of individuality — true individuality, capable of seeing the wood in spite of the trees.’
25
Amrit Datta was less than ten kilometres from the Chinese border when a motorcycle policeman stopped him. The bike had freewheeled from the top of a sloping hillside road and was beside Amrit before he realized anything was happening.
‘Papers.’ The policeman got off the bike.
Amrit nodded several times, too quickly, playing the anxious peasant, examining the man’s uniform as he dug in his pocket for his ID documents. As with a number of border police units, there was a strong American influence here: the officer wore a short-sleeved pale green shirt, darker green riding breeches with knee-high shiny boots, a white helmet with a green stripe, and very dark Ray-Bans.
‘You are Opu Hikmet, is that correct?’ The officer flipped through the papers, frowning as if they offended him.
‘Opu Hikmet, sir. That is correct, sir.’
‘Where are you travelling to?’
Amrit took back the papers. ‘I am looking for work, sir. I am not going anywhere special. As soon as I find work I stop until the work is done, then I move on again.’
The officer pointed at the sack on Amrit’s shoulder. ‘What’s in there?’
‘My few belongings, sir.’
‘Show me.’
Amrit didn’t move. ‘I would rather not.’
The officer too
k off the Ray-Bans. He had red-rimmed eyes. They were wide and staring. ‘What did you say?’
‘My things are private, sir. I would rather not show them to you.’
The officer kicked Amrit on the shin. The sound of it was like something being snapped. Amrit dropped to one knee, rubbing his shin.
‘Open the bag.’
Amrit stood up slowly. ‘I do not think you have the right to treat me in such a way, officer.’
‘It is not your place to think, guttersnipe!’
The officer kicked him again, on the other leg. This time it was harder and he broke the skin. Blood seeped through the leg of Amrit’s baggy trousers. He set his teeth against the pain and unslung the bag from his shoulder. He handed it to the policeman.
‘Perhaps you have learned that in future, when an officer of the law tells you to do something, you do it at once.’
The policeman opened the sack and looked inside. The plastic bags were unmistakable. His mouth dropped open. He looked up and found himself staring into the barrel of Amrit’s gun.
‘Put down the bag, officer.’ Amrit’s voice was firm now, controlled. The policeman dropped the sack beside the motorbike. ‘Now take off your clothes.’
‘You can’t do this.’
‘I wouldn’t normally do it,’ Amrit said. ‘In the case of a rattle-snake like you, however, I’m prepared to be creative.’
‘You’ll be caught before you get to the next town.’
‘No, I won’t.’
The officer brought up his knee sharply. Amrit moved aside and tapped the end of the gun barrel on the officer’s lip, splitting it. He yelped and staggered back. Blood poured down his chin.
‘Don’t get blood on the shirt,’ Amrit warned as the officer staunched the flow with his handkerchief. ‘Get a move on.’
In five minutes Amrit was dressed in the policeman’s clothes. He took time in the procedure to use the bike’s first-aid kit to patch his leg and put an adhesive dressing on the policeman’s mouth. He put his own clothes in the sack on top of the drugs and put the sack in one of the motorbike’s panniers.