Trouble

by Michael Gilbert

  Mowatt said, “What do you think, Ludo? Will this meeting get us the sort of help we need?”

  “I doubt it,” said Every. He sounded bitter. “It will split along the old, old lines. Regular against irregular. The army doesn’t love us any more than the Met loves the Special Branch.”

  “Not all the Met. Don’t forget that when C13 was formed it was staffed largely by the Special Branch. There’s still a very close relationship. If it came to the point I believe Salwyn would side with Elfe and Bearstead.”

  “Why should it come to a point? If by coming to a point you mean some sort of split. Why the hell can’t they work together for once?”

  “They might,” said Mowatt. “If they were worried enough.”

  “Then for God’s sake, let’s worry them.”

  “Well, gentlemen,” said Elfe, “you’ve all read this report. I don’t need to underline what it means.”

  The table, Mowatt noted, had been arranged with the propriety of a diplomatic lunch party. There was a chair with arms at each end, one for Elfe and one for General Usher. The two policemen, Haydn-Smith and Salwyn, had upright chairs on one side, facing Mowatt, Every and Elfe’s head of operations, Chief Superintendent Bearstead. Remembering what Mowatt had said, Every was interested to observe that, with a choice of two chairs, Commander Salwyn had taken the one on Haydn-Smith’s left, thus forming – whether intentionally or not it was difficult to say – a solid Special Branch block at Elfe’s end of the table.

  The paragraph from the Belgian newspaper Aurore had been photographed and clipped to a sheet of paper with an English translation tacked on to it. It was date-lined three days earlier from Liège and was headed ‘The Elusive Bomb’.

  A message received from our representative at Spa has produced an unusual and intriguing problem, a problem which enquiries so far have made no progress in solving. South of Liège and north-west of the River Ourthe lies the large area of heathland which has, for many years now, been used in part as an artillery range for the Army and in part a bombing range for the Air Force. It is intersected by a few country roads, which are used by farmers who naturally observe the restrictions as to access and timing imposed on them by the authorities—

  “If it’s anything like Larkhill,” muttered General Usher when he came to this point, “they go anywhere they bloody well fancy at any hour of the day or night and claim massive compensation if they run into trouble. They ought to be turned off altogether.”

  —It appears that yesterday the Air Force had set up an exercise which involved the dropping of a single stick of bombs, by four different planes, along a marked and surveyed line at precise intervals. The bombs were thousand-pound anti-personnel bombs with GLD fuses—

  A note, in ink, in the margin said, ‘Ground Level Detonation’.

  The first three planes dropped their bombs accurately, with no great difficulty. By the time the fourth was airborne the early-morning mist had thickened somewhat and it is thought that this may have caused the pilot to miss the opening marker and deviate from the set line, with the result that his first bomb landed about four hundred yards north of its target. The pilot then realised his error, swung back on the proper course and dropped the remaining bombs at the correct points. There was no cause for alarm since there was an ample safety corridor on each side of the range and in any event, this particular bomb failed, for some reason, to explode. A party went out that afternoon to recover it. This was where the mystery started. It had disappeared. The pilot was able to indicate the point at which it had been dropped with considerable accuracy, since he had noted that it was close to the junction of two country tracks and, in fact, it was this that had shown him, immediately after he had dropped the bomb, that he was off his course. The surface at that point is broken by a number of fissures and ravines and is covered with long grass and heather: circumstances which make searching difficult. Wing Commander Lennaert said, “We shall persist in our efforts until we have located and recovered the bomb. One point which demands investigation is why it failed to explode.”

  Each man, when he had finished reading, laid the paper quietly down on the table in front of him. No one was in much doubt as to what had occurred.

  Mowatt said, “Not difficult to answer the Wing Commander’s question, is it? A bomb doesn’t explode if the detonator has been removed.”

  “At least two men involved then,” said the General. “The pilot and the man who loaded the bomb. A proper investigation should pin it to them easily enough.”

  “I imagine that the organisers will have thought of that, sir. The money they’ll have paid them will blunt any bed of nails they’re going to be thrown on to.”

  “What you’re suggesting,” said Haydn-Smith, “is that the whole thing was rigged. The IRA, or their local friends, knew where this particular bomb was going to be dropped, had transport and some sort of hoist handy, picked it up and carried it off.”

  “I’m afraid that’s what I do think,” said Mowatt. “I presume that as long as it was in store, this explosive was too well guarded for them to steal it. So they helped themselves to it by this somewhat unorthodox route.”

  “Ingenious,” said the General.

  “There’s one thing I don’t understand,” said Haydn-Smith. “Of course, I know very little about bombs. I did my active service in the Navy. When the bomb failed to explode, wouldn’t it have buried itself so deep that no one could possibly have hauled it out? I was reading the other day about them digging out one of the bombs dropped in the blitz. It had buried itself twenty foot down.”

  “Certainly,” said Salwyn. “It was designed to knock down buildings and would have a delayed-action fuse. These were anti-personnel bombs, designed to go off when they hit the ground.”

  “All the same,” said Haydn-Smith sharply, “it seems obvious to me that it would have gone down a good way, whether it exploded or not.” He didn’t like having things explained to him by someone junior to him in the force.

  Mowatt had his eye on the General. He hoped that he was going to trot out a personal recollection. Mowatt had heard it twice before, but if he could edge the General into telling it once more, it would put him in a good temper for the rest of the meeting. He said, “I don’t suppose any of us could answer that question, sir.”

  “As a matter of fact, gentlemen,” said the General, “I can. I was a very young and very junior gunner officer in 1944 and the first action I saw was outside Cassino. We took over a gun position under Monte Trocchio from the New Zealanders. Some days before we arrived, it seems that the US Air Force had dropped a thousand pounder almost on to the New Zealand position. Fortunately it had failed to explode and there it was, sticking up in the ground. At least two thirds of it was showing, I remember.”

  “I imagine the New Zealanders raised a stink about that,” said Every, who also knew the story.

  “I’m afraid you underestimate their sense of humour. What they did was to surround it with a neat square of white cord and stick up a notice: ‘Monument to the American Air Force’.”

  Everyone laughed. The atmosphere seemed a bit easier.

  “It had to be removed, of course. Couldn’t have inter-allied friction. I seem to remember that the RAOC came along with a hoist and carted it off in a three-ton lorry. No problem.”

  Haydn-Smith said, “What sort of explosive would a thousand pound bomb contain? And how much of it?”

  “In this case we know it was torpex,” said Every. “I’ve had a word with Lennaert. He’s not nearly as happy about the incident as the newspaper report suggests. The answer to your second question is that nowadays roughly forty per cent of the bomb weight is in the explosive.”

  “Four hundred pounds of extremely powerful incendiary explosive, gentlemen,” said Elfe. “Designed, I have no doubt, to fuel the IRA Christmas campaign in London. I take it you agree with me that it is worth any and every effort, however extreme, to keep it out of the country.”

  No one said anything. Ther
e was no need for them to speak. All of them round that table had experienced the power of explosives; had seen arms and legs blown off, had heard children screaming mindlessly, had smelled the mixture of blood and smoke and terror and pain.

  “The object of this meeting,” said Elfe, after he had allowed the silence to become uncomfortable, “is to co-ordinate our efforts. I’ll begin, if I may, by asking Colonel Every to tell us about the last attempt to bring explosives into this country – happily prevented.”

  Speaking briskly and without reference to notes, Colonel Every described the Belgian end of the operation and the incidents of midsummer day at Cuckmere Haven.

  “I’d like to emphasise one point,” he said. “We had, as you know, on this occasion been tipped off as to the time and place of landing and we were able to be waiting ready for them. But even if we had not been, there is no certainty that the landing would have succeeded. The progress of the Petite Amie had been regularly logged on the radar screens of other boats. As soon as she turned inshore and doused her lights this was reported as suspicious to the coastguard stations at Birling Gap and Newhaven. You probably know that the coastguard services have recently been considerably augmented and re-equipped.”

  “One of the few sensible things the government has spent its money on,” growled the Major General. “Sorry, Colonel, I interrupted you. I take it it’s your opinion that now the coastguard has been forewarned there’s not much chance of a simple coastal landing.”

  “That’s what I think,” said Every. “I also think that the IRA dislike repeating efforts, particularly when they have failed. This time it will be something quite different. I’m sure of that.”

  “Something crafty,” agreed Salwyn, “with a back-up scheme if it fails.”

  Ignoring Salwyn and directing his question pointedly at Elfe, Haydn-Smith said, “And it’s your idea, Jack, that it has got something to do with the Woolwich-Plumstead district. I’d like to hear about that.”

  “Say your piece, Bruno.”

  Bearstead was ready. He repeated, in rather more formal language, what he had already said to Anthony Leone. He was listened to in silence. Not hostile exactly, but analytical.

  “Then all it seems to turn on,” said Haydn-Smith, “is that both Firn and the man called Liam have been spotted in the same district.”

  “And that Liam knocked out one of your heroes,” said the General. “I thought you taught them how to fight, Ludo.”

  “We do our best,” said Every, keeping his temper. “Everyone has an off day. Personally I thought the really interesting visitor was not Liam, but Firn. He’s a money man. A back-office character. He doesn’t often play an active part in these matters.”

  “If I might say so,” said Mowatt, “I entirely agree. And I think it demonstrates the awkward position they’ve got themselves into as a result of the failure of their Cuckmere landing. Everyone who was concerned with that operation, right down the chain, Doctor Bernard, lawyer Monnier, Wulfkind, Firn and Liam are on trial. The IRA put down a lot of money and didn’t get what they paid for. They don’t like that. This time the explosive has got to get through—”

  “Or they’ll be hobbling round without kneecaps,” said Salwyn.

  No one smiled.

  Haydn-Smith said, “Can we get back to this chap that Liam seems to be in contact with?”

  “Arthur Drayling,” said Bearstead. “A well-known importer of marble and statuary. Recently we happened to find out something rather interesting about him. He is totally and completely under Liam’s thumb.”

  Heads jerked up.

  “You’d better explain that, Bruno,” said Elfe.

  Bearstead said, “Two of my men followed him last week and found him paying an evening visit to a PE establishment in Barnard Street.”

  “You mean some sort of gym?” said the General.

  “Not physical education, General. Paedophiliac Exchange. You may have heard of them.”

  “Read something in the papers about it. Pictures of small boys, isn’t it?”

  “Some go in for pictures. Some are more active. And some of them film the action.”

  “Revolting,” said the General. “Why aren’t they exterminated?”

  Haydn-Smith said stiffly, “We do our best. But it isn’t easy. If we know an address, we raid it, but we rarely find any pictures or films. They’re kept in a self-destruct cabinet. There’s always someone on the premises. One turn of the key and the whole lot are ashes. Once that has happened, we can only prefer a charge if one or more of the boys concerned is prepared to give evidence. Occasionally they are. Not very often. Then we can at least confiscate all the apparatus. Some of it’s expensive stuff, too. But even that doesn’t seem to stop them from opening up somewhere else.”

  “There’s a lot of money behind them,” said Mowatt. “Some of it almost certainly originates in Russia.”

  Everyone thought about this. Bearstead said, “Our men were fortunate. They paid a surprise visit to the Barnard Street establishment and managed to persuade the proprietor to open his box of tricks for them. He produced a photograph of Drayling. I’ve brought it to show you.”

  Every and Mowatt had seen it already and were interested in the different reactions; the simple disgust of the General; the disgust combined with professional curiosity of Haydn-Smith and Salwyn; the massive impassivity of Elfe.

  “My men also extracted a description of the only other person a copy of this particular photograph had been given to. And it did sound very like the man who calls himself Liam.”

  “If we’re right about where the money comes from,” said Mowatt, “you realise that Liam would have privileged access to the records of a place like that.”

  Elfe said, “If Liam has that photograph, he’s got Drayling in his pocket. He wouldn’t even have to threaten to publish it. Just arrange for a copy to be handed round at the club. Drayling would be finished.”

  “Agreed, Jack,” said Haydn-Smith. “Liam could make Drayling jump through any hoop he held up. But which hoop does he want him to jump through? That’s the real point, isn’t it?”

  “It’s what we’ve been trying to work out,” said Mowatt. “And I can’t pretend that we’ve got the final answer. One thing we did notice though. The bombing range is about ten miles north of Marche-en-Famenne, which is where Wulfkind has his marble quarry.”

  “And Drayling is one of Wulfkind’s regular customers,” said Every. “We know that in the last year he’s bought a number of statues, quantities of painted tiles and slab marble, iron-work railings and gates, either directly from Wulfkind, or through him as agent for other firms in Belgium.”

  “Then we seem to be getting somewhere,” said Salwyn more happily. If anything went wrong, he knew that most of the trouble was going to come his way.

  Every, who knew Salwyn well and liked him, said, “There’s one snag, Jimmy. Perhaps you’re thinking on the lines that the torpex might be hidden in the next consignment from Marche-en-Famenne? But bear in mind that it’s all heavy stuff. It would have to be unloaded by crane. If it was landed at any of the Thameside docks – the Royals, or one of the very few private docks still operating – it would be inside a customs ring-fence and well guarded by the PLA police. And even though it had been cleared by Customs at Gravesend it wouldn’t be allowed out until the Metropolitan police had passed one of their ACID detectors over it – which would show up the explosive, however cleverly it had been buried inside a hollow slab of marble or the latest copy of the Venus de Milo or the Wrestling Athletes.”

  “That seems common sense,” said Haydn-Smith. “If they tried to land it at one of the docks they’d be asking for trouble.”

  “All right,” said Salwyn. “Rule out the docks if you like. There are plenty of wharfs and jetties, aren’t there?”

  “In Gallions Reach,” said Every, “which is the part of the river we’re particularly interested in, I’ve already noted eleven wharfs on the north bank and eight on the south. Those
are the main ones. There could be a number of smaller ones which aren’t on the map at all.”

  Salwyn was beginning to look unhappy again.

  “Let’s get back to Drayling,” said the General. “He seems to be the only firm lead that we’ve got. If we found that he had some connection with one particular wharf, wouldn’t that narrow the field?”

  “If we could discover that,” said Mowatt, “I agree it’d be a long step forward. But he’s a businessman with a finger in a lot of pies. The best way of checking all his contacts would be to tap his telephone.”

  He said this hopefully; but not very hopefully.

  “Not a chance, Reggie,” said Elfe. “They’re getting very jumpy about that. If I could make out an exceptional case I could go to the Home Secretary personally, but what could I tell him about Drayling? That he once had a visit from a known terrorist?”

  “You could go a little further than that, sir,” said Bearstead. “To start with, Liam stayed there for an hour. It can’t be supposed that he was buying dwarfs for his garden, so what was he talking about? Added to that, we now know that Drayling is under Liam’s thumb and has to do what he’s told. That practically makes him a terrorist himself.”

  “If you took that line with the Home Secretary,” said Haydn-Smith, “mightn’t you have to explain just how you got hold of that photograph? I imagine your men had to be fairly rough with the PE proprietor.”

  “On the contrary,” said Bearstead, “they never laid a finger on him.”

  “So they say.”

  “When our men tell their own officers something,” said Elfe, and his voice sounded like the clashing of icebergs, “we believe them. I don’t know about your men, but our men don’t lie to us.”