by Stan Mason
‘Come now, Savage!’ chided Sir Peter, finding the remark amusing. ‘Nothing like that! We’re inviting you to attend our meeting. There’s an element of urgency and the need for absolute secrecy. Life doesn’t always fit into neat little boxes, you know.’
I gave him a jaundiced look. ‘Does this happen often? Inviting people here in this fashion?’
The Lieutenant-Colonel snorted at the insubordination. ‘Dashed awkward!’ he muttered reticently. ‘Dashed awkward for everyone!’
Miss Grayson looked at me appealingly. ‘You’re quite right. We ought to apologise for causing inconvenience,’ she ventured. ‘Please sit down and listen to what we have to say. I’m sure you’ll understand our difficulty.’ She was a very attractive woman in her early thirties, with blonde hair, blue eyes and a very trim figure. The clothes she wore seemed to be a little too avant-garde for a civil servant. I took her advice and sat down, waiting for someone to give me an explanation but, to my annoyance, they all remained silent.
‘I didn’t know we had an organisation known as State Security?’ I thrust pointedly, looking directly at Jacobs. He treated the question as rhetoric, staring back at me coldly without uttering a syllable. The silence continued until my ears seemed fit to burst as my heart pounded away loudly. ‘Look... I’m not an impatient man normally,’ I shouted angrily, ‘but I would appreciate it if someone could tell me why I’ve been brought here... and what’s going on!’
Sir Peter played with a pencil for a few moments, having doodled continuously since I entered the room. ‘The P.M. will be here in a moment. I think he’ll wish to discuss the matter with you at first hand. If it’s any comfort to you, we’re all waiting on him.’ I turned to Jacobs looking for someone to wound. ‘I suppose you’re MI5 and all that!’
‘MI5!’ snapped the security man. ‘This is not a James Bond film, Savage!’
It was left for me to survey the room until something interesting happened and I decided to maul them in the meantime. ‘State Security, Home Office, two from Defence and, on top of that, the Prime Minister. It’s all very intriguing. Do you have a dossier on me... or a detailed curriculum vitae?’
‘Don’t be so damned conceited!’ snarled Jacobs. ‘You’re here to do a service for your country. I suggest you stop speculating and cut out the chit-chat!’
I had the greatest respect for the person who appointed him to State Security for, in my view, a job of that description needed personnel who were extremely unpleasant and very hard. Jacobs fitted the bill perfectly... he was an extremely nasty man. ‘A service for my country!’ I repeated sarcastically. ‘Well that’s interesting. You see, a funny thing happened to me on my way to the City this morning. I was abducted for my country.’
‘You were not abducted...... . ’ began Sir Peter, but his sentence tailed off as Maitland returned through the side door followed by the Prime Minister.
Everyone rose as a token of respect and the Prime Minister waved his hand for them to sit down again. They all obeyed except Maitland who stood at the side of his superior as though prepared for action.
‘Good morning, Mr. Savage!’ greeted the Prime Minister, glancing briefly at the faces of those attending. ‘First of all, please accept my apology for the method by which you were brought here today. Believe me, it was unavoidable. It’s not the policy of this government to abduct people to the House of Commons, but on this occasion zealousness overcame caution. Please forgive us.’
I stared into the eyes of Sir Peter with a smirk on my lips at the Prime Minister’s confession. However, he chose to look up at the ceiling tiredly as though bored with the proceedings.
‘We are faced with a serious situation brought to our attention recently and we ask for your help,’ continued the Prime Minister. ‘Would you outline the details, Mr. Jacobs?’
The State Security man cleared his throat. ‘The activities of every society, group, organisation, faction or agency in this country are examined regularly to protect the rights of citizens and to prevent unlawful and unauthorised intervention in the affairs of the nation. Although the government has no intention of imposing control on any section of the public, law and order must prevail. The riots in Liverpool, Bristol, Bermondsey and Tottenham, in the past, were prime examples where situations almost got out of control. At the same time, we monitor the activities of certain groups abroad to assess in advance whether action is required to prevent terrorist or other activities against the public interest. That’s the role of State Security. Would you like to carry on, Sir Peter?’
The Home Office official drew his eyes down from the ceiling to stare directly at me. ‘In normal circumstances,’ he began, shifting slightly in his seat, ‘it’s sufficient to monitor without taking action. Information has reached us, however, of another element which has formed itself into something more serious... not only in this country but all over Europe. We believe your editor was able to learn of International Three Thousand, an organisation recruiting young people whose policy it is to overthrow all the governments in Europe. One can only assume they intend to created a United States of Europe counter to the existing system. In a single word, Mr. Savage, we’re talking of anarchy and revolution.’
I sat silently, allowing the words to filter through my mind. They must have tapped Ted Flander’s telephone to realise The Daily Post was going to intrude into their clandestine world. ‘What information do you have?’ I asked innocently.
‘None at all!’ retorted Lieutenant-Colonel Topham bitterly. ‘My office only heard about this last night. It seems to be a very secret society. Perhaps that’s the most disturbing thing about it. We’ve checked with a number of other European governments but they know little about it either.’
I shrugged my shoulders listlessly and shook my head from side to side. ‘I understand what you’re telling me, but how is my newspaper involved? I mean, you have all your own intelligence agents. What can I do?’
‘We’re asking you to volunteer for this task,’ confided the Prime Minister. ‘It’s a matter of urgency and top priority. We’re concerned that if we go through normal channels, those in control of International Three Thousand would be driven underground, and they might also accelerate their plans. That’s the last thing we want to happen. However, if a nosey newspaper reporter starts to make enquiries, they may not suspect that anyone else knows about it. It would give us time before they spur themselves into action. The government requires a full report no later than thirty days from now... with details, locations and other information so that action may be taken in the interest of the public.’
‘Tell me,’ I requested humbly. ‘Do you know why it’s called International Three Thousand?’
Sir Peter shifted in his seat again as he came to the rescue. ‘You may recall that Adolf Hitler told his nation the Third Reich would live for a thousand years. Well, this organisation is following a similar route. They intend to start their antics now, with the aim of changing Europe before the year three thousand anno domini. A thousand years. It rings a bell, doesn’t it?’
‘I’m afraid we shall have to insist on ‘D’ notices at the present time with regard to publication of the story in your newspaper,’ continued the Prime Minister. ‘In effect, Mr. Savage, this meeting never took place and none of us has ever seen you. Equally, you have never seen us, and no one is to be told anything... not even your editor. As you make inroads into this assignment, perhaps you would care to contact Miss Grayson. She’ll appraise us of your progress in the field.’ He stood up as if to leave and Maitland moved aside the chair. ‘Before I go, I would like to thank you for your assistance. I’m sure you recognise the importance of your role and the service you’ll be giving to your country. Thank you very much... and good luck!’
The others stood up as the Prime Minister left the room. I wondered if he was going to meet another person like myself to deal with urgent matters of a simila
r nature. The mantle of government at its highest level assumed many different roles. Sir Peter picked up his papers, including his doodles, shuffled them into order, and then stalked out of the room without saying another word. Lieutenant-Colonel Topham followed in his footsteps. Jacobs stared at me as though I was his prey and he was about to eat me. Then his face softened a little.
‘Don’t rush your fences,’ he advised. There was silence and then he moved closer to speak to me confidentially. ‘If you want, you can have Gates to help you. But it has to be unofficial.’
I expressed my gratitude with an element of surprise in my voice, assuming that Gates was the tall chauffeur who had abducted me. Perhaps Jacobs wasn’t quite as nasty as he appeared to be at first sight. At least he was trying to help. I stared at him as he walked out of the room, presuming that, because of his attitude, he was probably the loneliest man in London... perhaps in the whole country!
‘I suppose you think we’re all afraid of our own shadows?’ Miss Grayson’s voice sounded smooth and interesting.
I glanced at her and smiled. ‘Sometimes I think I’m in a zoo looking at the human-beings caught up in the web of civilisation, in the same way I watch the antics of chimpanzees. When you look at it in that light, it’s difficult not to laugh.’ She began to smile at my misdirected philosophy although it wasn’t really funny at all! ‘You better let me have details where I can contact you. How about dinner this evening? I know a nice little place. We can discuss everything in detail.’
She scanned my face for a while before making a decision. ‘Very well, Mr. Savage. Collect me at eight o’clock.’ She delved into her handbag to produce one of her business cards which she handed to me. ‘The official address is on the front. My home address is on the back.’
‘Do all your cards have your home address on the back? I mean, someone in your position... it could be dangerous.’
‘Isn’t life much more fun when it’s dangerous?’ she retorted. She looked at me with a slight smile at the corners of her mouth. I felt a warm glow move inside me and told myself she was only a pretty woman... a technical advisor on defence matters... nothing more. She was simply my contact with regard to information.
Outside the House of Commons, the traffic seemed to be moving much easier and I hailed a taxi to take me back to my car. When I reached the office, Ted Flanders was in his usual bad mood. The last time I saw him smile, there was a flash of lightning and a crack of thunder. He was standing in the office in his shirt-sleeves, almost dancing with rage.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ he shouted at the top of his voice. ‘He cast his arm across the desk, sweeping papers and office paraphernalia to the floor in a very bad temper. I remained silent because he wouldn’t believe me if I told him the truth. I decided that the words offered by Gates earlier in the day would suffice as an answer. ‘I don’t see anything, hear anything, or say anything,’ I told him calmly. ‘It makes life much simpler most of the time.’
His reaction was unprintable, failing to accept my comments in the right spirit. All I know is that when I reached my own office and closed the door behind me, the silence was deafening. On the desk stood a photograph of myself on a beach during my vacation. It seemed to be a million miles away. I toyed with the events of my first morning back at work and measured it against the quality of life. ‘Was it worth it?’ I asked myself. ‘Was it all really worth it?’
Chapter Two
The East End of London had always been one of my favourite haunts. I had an affinity with it. Perhaps it was my humble upbringing in the docks area which took me back to my roots. There was simply the comfortable feeling it was my second home. The people were so natural in their attitude and behaviour; no side, no affectation, no innuendo. Life continued in reality without false hopes, high ambitions or feelings of grandeur. At one time, the territory became a slum of enormous proportions where the pitted and scarred brickwork of old crumbling buildings erected in Victorian days was commonplace. The streets were littered with stray refuse left to rot in the open, and a miserable stench lingered everywhere. In recent years there had been a change of heart by local planners who had turned the dock area into a wealth of offices, building giant monoliths, each with a thousand eyes for windows, staring out over an area where new replaced the old and the streets were clean. For me, the faint odour of the past still remained in my nostrils.
I had arranged to meet Calvin at the Dog and Duck in Backchurch Lane that afternoon. He was invaluable to me... one of the best informers I ever had the good fortune to groom in my stable. The value of his services to the newspaper had been considerable over the last five years, but the results had paid him rich rewards. Calvin reminded me very much of the late W.C. Fields, the old music hall entertainer. His voice sounded the same and his attitude to life was identical. I could always imagine him imitating the great comedian saying: “When you wake up in the morning smile... best to get it over with right away!” or “If at first you don’t succeed, try again, then quit... no use being a damn fool about it!” He weighed about twenty-two stone and sat precariously on a stool in the saloon bar in the public house. He was a person who could be termed in the vernacular as a “know-all” and I, with hand on heart, could attest I had never seen him shift from the stool. It amazed me how such an indolent grossly-overweight person, who hardly seemed to move his body could amass such a lot of knowledge concerning the criminal world... but Calvin managed to succeed! In fact, the only actions I recalled about him was the movement of his lips as he spoke, which was very limited, and the automatic swing of his right arm when he raised a glass of beer to his mouth, which occurred often. As I entered the Dog and Duck, his eyes scanned my face without blinking and his expression was unmoved. It was as though he knew the reason for my visit and was ready to negotiate for the information. I went to the bar to stand close to him and ordered a drink.
Not now! Not here!’ he muttered through his lips which hardly moved. ‘Take your drink and sit in the far corner!’
I looked about the room casually but no one was there except for a young couple gazing into each other’s eyes romantically at one table, and an old codger smoking a briar pipe at another. Nonetheless, I followed the instruction and took my drink to the far corner to wait until it was my turn to be counselled. Within a short while, a seedy thin individual with an unshaven face and an ill-fitting suit entered and walked up to Calvin. He whispered something into his ear and the fat man’s lips moved to ask a number of questions. After a few minutes, Calvin removed a bundle of bank-notes from his pocket, peeled off a few, and handed them to the other man who left the inn quickly. I wondered how the fat man knew someone was going to offer him information at that time. He seemed to have a crystal ball working inside his head. I had to admire him, for while he sat immobile on a stool all day long drinking beer, I had to race round the country like a lunatic, under pressure, with very short deadlines, writing stories for a bad-tempered editor. He waved a hand at me without looking in my direction and I walked over to the bar, drink in hand, trying to act casually without drawing attention to myself.
‘Comes to mind,’ he said slowly, as W.C. Fields used to do, ‘that you have a great story on your hands. If only you can get a decent lead.’
‘What story is that?’ I challenged, testing him.
‘Comes to mind,’ he repeated, ‘that many young people, in this country and others, are becoming very bad boys. They’re not playing the game.’
‘How come you know?’ I asked with an element of frustration in my voice. The issue was a secret at top-level yet he seemed to know all about it. I felt as though I was the last one at the end of the line to hear of it.
‘You’re lucky, it’s not going to cost you this time, my friend,’ he continued. ‘All my chickens are coming home to roost, and I’m in a good mood.’
It didn’t sound good to me. Calvin never gave favours to anyone for nothing. H
e made his living by passing on information from that single stool... and his tariff was high. If he was willing to offer something freely, it was tantamount to the fact he couldn’t help. ‘All right, what’s my lead?’
‘Igor Strogoff. Know the man?’
‘Never heard of him!’
‘Look him up in some of those newspaper files of yours. Igor Strogoff!’
‘How do I get in touch with him?’
‘Comes to mind there’s a meeting at the People’s Palace in the Mile End Road this evening at seven thirty. You might consider attending.’
I swallowed the rest of my drink and then nodded. ‘All right, Calvin. I’ll be in touch.’
‘You do that. I’m interested to know the outcome.’ He swung his right arm into gear to lift his glass as I left. I glanced back at him momentarily, still thinking of W.C. Fields. Somehow I could hear him say: “Comes to mind, I exercise extreme control... I never drink anything stronger than gin before breakfast!”
Calvin was a real East End character. Everyone knew of him but few had ever seen him... not unless they visited the Dog and Duck. For my own part, I wasn’t sure whether to be grateful to him or not. The lead he had given me was hardly promising and I had a feeling in the pit of my stomach it was going to be a dead end. But beggars couldn’t be choosers... it was all I had to go on. So I returned to the office and looked up the files to find some details about Strogoff. The newspaper had masses of background information in files or on microfilm. This time the data was scant indeed.