The Saxon
Network
Norman Hartley
Copyright © 2012 by Norman Hartley
Published by Highwire Productions
normanhartleybooks.com
Cover design by Ray Tracey
eBook design by Tim C. Taylor
All rights reserved
For Vanessa
Muse, editor and constant support
Chapter 1
It began after a dawn aerobatic flight in a Tiger Moth. Later that day, I was boarding for the editorship of the BBC World Service and I’d driven down from London for an exhilarating hour of loops and spins over the Kent coast to get into the right frame of mind. I was coming in to land at Headcorn when I saw the car which told me everything could be about to go wrong.
It was a black Mercedes S600. From 1200 feet I couldn’t read the number plate but it had to belong to Virginia Walsh. It was her official MI6 vehicle, a looming, glossy limousine with tinted windows, chosen to send threatening signals: power, anonymity, status. There were also two police cars, chequered in blue and yellow, that hadn’t been there when I had taken off. One was parked by the clubhouse, the other blocked the drive which led to the airfield’s main gate.
As I came lower, I could make out Walsh herself, standing a few feet from the car, looking impatiently at the sky. Just for a moment I debated whether to make a run for it. I had enough fuel to reach one of the farm strips dotted around the south of England but my car was parked here at Headcorn and I had no easy way of getting any further, and no passport. I decided there was no point. If they were going to arrest me I would be better off in the hands of my lawyer than on the run.
I made an extra circuit of the field to consider the problem. The key question was: what had MI6 - my former employers - found out? It had to be the Geneva trip but I’d been so careful and I couldn’t believe they knew all the details. The trip to Switzerland had been my last chance to clear my name and it had failed. The failure was dispiriting enough but if they had found out who I had contacted, I was in serious trouble. I took extra care to make a textbook landing to indicate that I wasn’t bothered by the welcoming party and taxied to the parking area. I climbed out of the cockpit and saw Walsh watching me but she made no move to come towards the Tiger.
Clive Everly was watching from the steps of the clubhouse. I shared the plane with Clive and he was already in flying kit, ready to take it over. I could see he was trying to come out onto the landing strip to greet me, but his path was being blocked by a burly, redheaded figure who strode out instead and said, ‘Mr Cartwright, John Cartwright?’
‘Yes.’
‘Detective Sgt Robertson. Would you come this way please, Sir.’
‘Is something wrong?’
I looked across the field towards Walsh but she had turned her back and was talking to the driver of the Mercedes. Without answering, Robertson grasped my arm and tried to propel me off the field. I broke free of his grip but allowed him to lead me to the club house where pilots and guests relaxed between flights. It was little more than a weather-beaten hut rather like a village cricket pavilion. Because there were very few non-flying members, there was not much drinking at the Tiger club but the atmosphere was always relaxed and convivial. The long veranda of the lounge faced the two main landing strips and the old basket chairs and glass-topped tables provided a perfect setting for sipping tea or orange juice and enjoying the flying. It had obviously been searched. The police had moved everything, even taking pictures off the walls. They had done no real damage but the lounge was still a sad sight. That didn’t make sense. If they had come to arrest me, why search the club house?
‘What’s been going on?’ I asked, indicating the mess.
Robertson ignored the question.
‘Where have you flown in from, Mr Cartwright?’ This time, the Sir had been dropped.
‘I took off from here about an hour ago. I just took a flip along the coast.’
‘Where exactly?’
‘I spent most of the time doing aerobatics over Romney Marsh then I flew along the beach between Romney and Hastings and came back.’
‘Any particular reason for the trip?’
‘No. I fly the Tiger as often as I can afford it, just for pleasure.’
‘You took off very early. Did you drive down from London?’
‘Yes’
‘Alone?’
‘Yes, alone.’
‘Any special reason for doing that, Mr Cartwright?’
I decided I might as well explain. If this interrogation had been prompted by Virginia Walsh, Robertson would know already what was going to happen today.
‘Later this morning, I have a selection board for the editorship of the BBC World Service. I came down for an early morning flight, so I would be relaxed and in a good mood for it.
‘Am I supposed to be impressed by that,’ Robertson said aggressively.
I didn’t rise to the bait. ‘No,’ I said, ‘you wanted a reason why I came down this early. I’ve given you one.’
‘Do you do this often?’
‘Fairly often, yes.’
‘And what about trips abroad. Do you make any of those?’
We were heading for dangerous ground. I hadn’t taken the Tiger to Geneva. It would have been far too easy to track. I had gone by train and travelled overnight in both directions so as not to need lodgings. But this could still be leading up to the big question.
‘Only to France,’ I said carefully. ‘About every other weekend, I fly to a small village outside Boulogne.’
‘Why is that?’ No Sir, or Mr, this time, just a hard stare.
‘To meet my girlfriend.’
‘You have a girlfriend in this village.’ He said in a tone that suggested he found the idea ridiculous.
‘No,’ I said patiently, ‘I have a girlfriend in Paris. I fly across the Channel and she either drives down or takes the TGV and we spend a weekend together in the country. The hotel where we stay has a landing strip.’
‘Why don’t you fly to Paris?’
‘We like the hotel and the flight is more straightforward’
‘And you make no other foreign trips?’
This was it, I thought. The next question was going to be ‘Have you ever flown to Geneva?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘two years ago I flew to the Channel Islands, but that’s about it.’
‘Can you prove that?’
‘You can check my logbook.’
Robertson ignored the offer and said abruptly.
‘Have you ever visited Iran?’
Substituting Iran for Geneva threw me for a moment, but at least he should see my surprise was genuine.
‘No, why do you ask that?’
‘You’ve never at any time visited Iran?’
‘No, never.’
That was a blatant lie. I had been to Iran many times in my previous life, as Virginia Walsh well knew. But I was answering questions as John Cartwright, following a script MI6 had helped me to prepare, and I could only answer ‘no’.
Robertson paused, preparing to work the point another way, when suddenly Virginia Walsh burst in. She strode through the door of the lounge and without introducing herself, thrust her warrant card in Robertson’s face and said abruptly, ‘I want to talk this man. You needn’t question him further. I’ll vouch for him.’
She was over-dressed in a lightweight dark suit with the faintest hint of pinstripes. Walsh was not a summer person. She was an expert at grooming herself but at fifty she did need make-up to look her best and the weather didn’t lend itself to her kind of formality. The sunshine showed up her facial lines. They were not laughter lines. Walsh didn’t laugh much nor did she make others laugh.
Robert
son took a step back. I was sure from his body language he knew who Walsh was already before seeing the warrant card. This was theatre, fixed before I even landed. Robertson indicated with a nod that I was free to go, doing his best to make it look convincing but he didn’t succeed.
‘I need to get changed.’ I said, indicating my flying suit.
‘You can do that later, this won’t take long.’ Walsh took my arm and led me towards the clubhouse door.
‘Are you going to tell me what this is all about?’ I asked when we were out on the strip.
‘Think of it as a warning,’ Walsh said. ‘There’s a security alert on. They’re picking up some people with Iranian connections. I just thought it might be useful to remind you how easily you could be picked up. One wrong word and you could be in Belmarsh by lunchtime.’
‘Unless of course you vouch for me,’ I said, ‘I liked that bit.’
‘Would you rather I told him why you left the service?’
The smart girls’ public school sneer was almost permanent in her conversations with me, but it no longer got under my skin. It was all part of the bruising psychological game we had been playing for years. I knew she wanted to say ‘left the service in disgrace’ but did not quite dare. Within the very tight circle of those who were aware of my existence at all, I was a pariah who had been ‘allowed to leave’ British Intelligence to avoid a scandal. Walsh, who hated me as much as I distrusted her, used the official line whenever she could, but when we were face to face and alone, she lacked the courage. She, more than anybody, knew exactly how and why I had been forced out.
‘You know why I’m here,’ she said, ‘we have some serious talking to do before your big moment.’
She managed to make it sound as though competing for the editorship of the World Service could be a serious matter only for someone way below her radar. It didn’t worry me. It was obvious she did not know about the Geneva trip and that was what mattered.
‘And searching the club house, was that to make me popular with my fellow flyers?’
‘You’re building a very comfortable niche for yourself in your new career. Too comfortable. You need to be reminded that you’re living on sufferance. Some of the people upstairs are not happy about your latest bid for promotion. Your rapid rise in the BBC is causing some concern.’
‘I haven’t risen yet, there are five other candidates.’
‘Nevertheless, there is some unease among those who think you might abuse it.’
‘Abuse it how?’
‘You’ll have opportunities for travel, access to key people. You might just get some silly idea that you’ll finally have a chance to clear your name.’
As usual Walsh had managed to get it completely wrong. I had decided the previous evening that if I did get the editorship, I would stop fighting MI6 and settle once and for all for a career with the BBC. The Geneva trip had been a last desperate attempt to secure some evidence that would support my claims of innocence. The two men I had been to see both knew what really happened but the hope that they might in some way testify in my favour had been a fantasy. I was about to give up, but as I made a point of never saying anything that would make Walsh’s life easier, I replied only, ‘the job won’t change anything.’
‘People are getting tired of you making them feel unsettled,’ she went on, as though I hadn’t spoken.
‘Are you sure it’s not you who is getting edgy?’ I said quietly. ‘I hear on the grapevine that it’s you who are about to take the great leap upwards - what’s the title - Chair of the Intelligence Co-ordinating Committee, - confirming you at last as Queen of the Labyrinth.’
That had been in her nickname for as long as I could remember, a tribute to her mastery of all the black arts of civil service and government infighting. The job she was bidding for: heading the committee co-ordinating the domestic and foreign intelligence services and the police anti-terrorism unit, would complete her investiture.
The hatred in her eyes was meant to scare me but I could see I had guessed right. She was the one who was afraid. I decided to press the point home.
‘Maybe we should have a showdown. Is that what the top floor wants? To get me fired from the BBC so I’m forced to go to the press with what really happened in Rome?’
‘No-one wants to get you fired,’ Walsh said, rather too quickly. ‘I just came to make sure that you understood the situation clearly. I also came to remind you that that if you attempt to raise past issues, in any way whatsoever, the Service will move against you immediately with the full weight of its authority.’
‘And I’d better remind you that I’ll not go along with it. I’ve already made contingency arrangements. I’ve taken serious legal advice and I’ve learned a lot about the way the media works in the past two years. You won’t be able to slide me quietly into Belmarsh.’
Walsh sighed. ‘You never learn do you, John? You know we would win.’ She shrugged, ‘anyway, I didn’t come here for showdown. Actually, I came to help you.’
‘Help!’
She ignored my sarcasm.
‘The selection board. You know all the members?’
‘Three of the four. One is being named at the last minute’.
‘Precisely,’ Walsh replied smugly, ‘and it’s the fourth member who may cause you some difficulty. His name is Stuart Rance. Colonel Stuart Rance. He’s the new head of Human Resources at BBC Television Centre, and not long out of the army. Still likes to use his rank. What does that tell you?’
‘That he should have stayed in the army?’
‘Perhaps, but you need to know that your paths have already crossed, in Iraq in 2005. He was attached to the Provisional Authority. He was based in Basra but used to go to Baghdad occasionally. You were undercover and he probably won’t recognise you. But I’m told he’s pretty sharp and he’s very military-minded so he could well pick apart that phoney CV of yours.’
Walsh reached into the top pocket of her flawless pink blouse and handed me a memory stick.
‘These are the details of Rance’s military career. Don’t say I don’t try to look after you.’
There was nothing I could say to that. The effrontery was too breathtaking. She had used her formidable bureaucratic skills to crucify me once and wouldn’t hesitate to do it again if it would further her career. But there was no doubt now that she was nervous. She really did want to help, but only because if I were exposed, my anger would focus, inevitably and rightly, on her.
‘It’s good to know you have my interests at heart, Virginia,’ I said, ‘thank you for coming to find me.’
‘We can always find you, John,’ Walsh said, ‘I’m sure you know that.’
It was her parting shot. Without saying good-bye, she walked slowly over to the Mercedes, giving her driver the time to get out and open the door for her.
I walked back to the clubhouse and found Clive Everly waiting on the veranda.
‘Who was the witch with the hearse?’
‘Just someone you’re better off not knowing.’
‘Are you in trouble?’
‘No more than usual. She wanted to give me a scare.’
I didn’t have to explain. Clive was one of the very few people who knew my situation.
‘I’ll have a discreet word with the other members, let them know it was a mistake. We don’t want you linked with what’s been going on overnight.’
‘What has been going on?’
‘Haven’t you heard the news?’
‘I’ve been flying, remember. I got up at 4-30. I haven’t logged in yet. What’s happened?’
‘They raided ten mosques last night, all round the country. Just been announced. Lots of arrests apparently. The press are quoting sources as saying they’re looking for people with Iranian connections.’ Clive laughed. ‘Not very impressive for a future editor of the World Service. If I were you, I’d go and do a bit more preparation for that board.’
Chapter 2
I drove fast to London, parked
near my flat in Covent Garden and walked to Bush House, the headquarters of the BBC World Service. I went straight to the fourth floor newsroom and, as I expected, it was buzzing.
The newsroom is run by one of the assistant editors. There are eight of us and our shifts are twelve hours long. Whoever is on duty has complete control, shapes the bulletins and is responsible for every word broadcast. Marianne Astier was on that day and from the way she was staring at her screen I knew it wasn’t the moment to interrupt her. I looked around for the person who looked the least busy. It was Bill Giles, the producer on the Latin American desk and I went over and asked for a quick run-down on what was happening, to save time on reading-in.
‘The main story is the raid on the mosques of course,’ Giles said, ‘no official arrest figures yet, but unofficially, the figure is already over thirty. Protest demonstrations have already started in London and Sheffield and one has been announced for Leeds. Very thin on official statements but sources are saying they’re looking for people with Iranian connections.
‘It’s brought the Iran issue to the fore of course – things have been very quiet lately so we’ve asked our Iranian experts to prepare some backgrounders. The Foreign Office has already started briefing on why the West regards Iran as a problem. We’ve got Jerusalem to assess the chances of Israel launching a strike on Iran’s nuclear facilities before the US Presidential election in November. Beirut’s doing a piece on Iran’s proxy armies - Hezbollah in Lebanon and Hamas in Gaza. All the usual stuff.’
Giles leaned back in his chair. ‘And just to make sure we don’t get lazy, there’s been three big regional stories in the last hour: large-scale fighting in Indonesia, two Indian ministers arrested for corruption and a plane hijack over West Africa, an Air Afrique Boeing bound for Mauritania. The hijackers took control of it immediately after take-off from Senegal.’
I thanked him and went into the small glass cubicle that is the nearest thing Assistant Editors get to having an office.
I was just starting to do a full read-in when Moira Claiborne tapped on the door and walked straight in. Moira is in charge of newsroom administration but she is better known as its chief gossip and party animal, and one of the World Service’s great characters. In her mid-forties, she seems to have the energy of a teenager and that day she was dressed in a short blue summer dress that showed off the legs of a young woman.
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