Trouble

by Michael Gilbert

  “What are?” said Locke.

  “Carassius Auratus Leoninus Indicus,” said Drummer proudly. “You’re a scholar. You’ll understand what that means.”

  “Not too difficult. Lion-heads from India, I take it.”

  “Right. Although in fact they don’t come from India. Only from the north of Pakistan, as perhaps you knew.”

  “The only thing I know about goldfish,” said Mr. Biffen, a thin sad mortician, “is that my children buy them and they die two weeks later.”

  “That’s because you don’t look after them properly, Biff. It’s no good keeping them in a bowl. You need a tank with a constant flow of fresh water coming through it.”

  “How are you going to get them over from Pakistan then? Difficult job to keep a tank full of fresh water in an aeroplane I should have thought.”

  “Arthur explained that. They come over in a special refrigerator – fish can live for months inside a block of ice.”

  In a company in which little escaped comment it was noticed that Drummer, who had previously always referred to ‘Mr. Drayling’, now called him Arthur. Their association must have ripened.

  “You’ll have to pay for the fish and the freight in advance, I imagine,” said Nabbs. “I hope the chap who is supplying them is reliable.”

  “Perfectly reliable. He’s a well-known accountant in the City. It’s one of his clients in Pakistan who is selling the fish.”

  Anything, Bearstead had said. Anything at all however far-fetched or trivial.

  Here was a well-known accountant who had, apparently, some connection with Pakistan and now some connection with Arthur Drayling. The thread was thin. Ludicrously thin. But he had given his word. The worst that could happen would be that he would be laughed at.

  There was a telephone kiosk tucked away down the lane behind the club. Better than using the club telephone, he thought, which was in the hall and very much under the public eye and ear.

  He dialled the number he had been given and a courteous voice said, simply, “Yes?”

  “I’m Anthony Leone, from Plumstead.”

  “Yes?”

  How can I put it, he thought, without sounding too stupid? “Chief Superintendent Bearstead asked me to let you know if I heard of any possible connection between a man here called Drayling and two gangs of boys. It isn’t the boys, actually, but the father of two of them, a man called Abel Drummer. Drayling has clearly become friendly lately with Drummer and another man who has been described as a well-known City accountant.” He explained about the goldfish. By the time he had finished, it sounded sillier than it had before.

  The voice said, “Thank you, Mr. Leone. I will pass your message on.”

  “Bumf,” said Colonel Every. “That’s what soldiering is about today. Nothing but bumf.”

  His desk was covered with his morning mail, official-looking envelopes, most of them marked OHMS, none of them promising any excitement. He had not yet tackled them as there was a more important matter to be dealt with.

  Captain Musgrave, standing in front of his desk, had been explaining that Sergeant Whitaker and Lance Corporal Abrahams had been in trouble. Ever since his unhappy encounter with Liam, Whitaker had been in an odd mood: gloomy some of the time; over-excited at others. Musgrave, who kept a fatherly eye on all of his men, sensed what the trouble was. Sergeant Whitaker was spoiling for a fight.

  It had not been difficult to find one. Soldiers who wore the beige beret and the coveted winged dagger were apt to be picked on by self-appointed champions from other units. A procedure had been evolved to deal with this. SAS men tended to stick to their own bars and to go there together. Good-humoured banter and the weight of numbers could usually defuse the situation. The trouble was that when an SAS man fought he could not forget the techniques he had been taught. On this occasion, provoked by a gunner with two tough-looking friends, Whitaker had sailed straight in. Abrahams had gone in to help him. The result had been one gunner with a broken jaw, one with suspected rupture of the spleen and the third unscathed only because he had taken evasive action. He had bolted from the bar and had run into a military police patrol.

  “Damn,” said Every. “Damn and damn. This’ll have to go up to Brigade.”

  “I don’t think Abrahams was really to blame, sir. It was three to one. He had to go in to help.”

  “I’ve no doubt Whitaker was the one who started it. He’s been asking for trouble for some time.”

  “If they get insulted in a pub, you can’t expect them to walk off and ignore it.”

  “I expect them to behave like adults, not like schoolboys. And I don’t expect them to half kill drunken squaddies. All right, David, I’ll take it from here. Don’t go. There’s probably something in all this bumf that I can unload on to you.”

  He started ripping open the envelopes, with a running commentary on their contents.

  “Army Council Instruction 1804/86. Something to do with not wearing gumboots in the street. You can have that one. Returning of damaged items to store. That should have gone to ‘Q’. Why the hell is everything, however stupid and unimportant, always marked ‘Urgent’ and always sent to me?”

  “You’ve been in the Army long enough to know the answer to that,” said Musgrave soothingly. “However, I admit it does seem odd—” he had picked up a bulky envelope and was examining it, “if this collection of documents really is urgent – that it would appear, unless I am reading the postmark incorrectly, to have been posted two months ago.”

  “Put it down, very carefully please,” said Every. “Right. Now slide it across the desk.” He made a path for it by sweeping the other papers aside. As he did this, Musgrave noticed the missing fingers of his right hand. He said, “Do you think—?”

  “We’ll find out,” said Every. He chose an envelope of the same size and filled it with papers until it was the same shape as the other. Then he put them both, in turn, on to the letter scales.

  “Four ounces heavier,” he said. “Lucky you spotted the postmark, David. Our friend must have got hold of this old envelope somehow. He faked the address, but he couldn’t change the postmark. Or hoped it wouldn’t be spotted.” He pulled the telephone across and started to dial.

  “Then you know who sent it?”

  “I’ve a fair idea. Home Office Explosives? Could I speak to Professor Meiklejohn? Thank you. Yes, I’ll hang on.”

  “When you look at it closely you can see that the original label’s been removed. Probably steamed off. And a new one stuck on.”

  “He’s an ingenious beast. Oh, Ian? Colonel Every here. I hope I haven’t interrupted some vital experiment.”

  “Ludo. Nice to hear from you. What you’ve interrupted is something I’ve been working on for a fortnight and have just decided is totally pointless. Tell me what I can do for you.”

  “I’ve a suspect packet here. Arrived this morning. I imagine it’s quite safe until you start to open it, but on the whole I think I’d better bring it up myself. Be with you in about an hour and a half.”

  “I’ll count the minutes,” said the Professor politely.

  14

  The Prime Minister looked at the neatly typed list which showed her engagements for that morning. She was in her private room at the House. This was convenient for interviews which might attract public interest, since it could be approached from a door at the back of the Members’ Library and her visitors could sit there inconspicuously until the moment came for them to be summoned. This avoided the scrutiny of public eyes and television cameras in Downing Street.

  The first two interviews that morning were about money. Brigadier Pike looked after the constituency agents. He was always wanting money for them. Most of the constituencies were better off than Central Office. They could afford to pay their own agents. The second was Dr. Lovibond, who was in charge of the Central Office staff and maintained that they were underpaid. Perhaps they were. She herself was underpaid. Leading industrialists earned four times her salary.


  Her third visitor was different. Deputy Assistant Commissioner Elfe had not come round from Great Peter Street to talk about money. This was something more important than money. It was the security of the realm.

  She liked and approved of Elfe and she had a shrewd idea of what he was going to say. It was an inter-departmental argument which had been rumbling on for some months. One advantage of dealing with Elfe was that he always came straight to the point. On this occasion it took him no more than two minutes to outline the difficulty which had arisen.

  “Not easy, Assistant Commissioner,” she said. “I fully appreciate the possibilities. I wouldn’t welcome an outburst of terrorism at Christmas time, any more than you would. I’m sure you understand that.”

  Elfe said, “Yes,” and waited.

  “But if I were to take any personal step in the matter it would amount to my interfering directly in the running of the Metropolitan Police, by countermanding an order given by one of the heads of that force.”

  “There is another possible solution,” said Elfe. “As you know it’s not a new idea and logically there’s much to be said for it. It would simply be a matter of internal reorganisation. The directive would have to come from the Home Secretary, of course. But it would be a matter within the normal scope of his office.” He explained what was in his mind.

  The Prime Minister thought about it. It would be a slap in the face for Haydn-Smith and she tried not to allow herself to be influenced by the fact that she disliked him and disliked his German wife even more.

  She said, “I’ll have a word with the Home Secretary this evening. I’ll let you have an answer tomorrow.”

  Professor Meiklejohn of the Home Office Explosives Experimental Unit at Woolwich was a man who considered that care was more important than speed. This was, possibly, why he was still alive and in one piece.

  It was forty-eight hours before he telephoned Colonel Every.

  He said, “I’ll let you have a report in writing in due course. This is just to let you know that you were right to be careful with that particular packet.”

  “I didn’t want to lose another finger.”

  “Another finger! You would probably have lost your life and your office into the bargain.”

  “As bad as that?”

  “Four ounces of compacted torpex can do a lot of damage. It’s incendiary as well as explosive, you know.”

  “Then I can tell the Squadron Commander who was standing on the other side of my desk that his powers of observation saved his own life.”

  Professor Meiklejohn considered this. He was a man who distrusted extravagant statements.

  He said, “If he was on the other side of the desk it might not have killed him. It would have damaged him badly and almost certainly blinded him. The trigger was ingenious. A small spring was held under tension by the flap of the envelope. Did you notice, incidentally, that the flap had been reinforced with a strip of adhesive tape?”

  “I don’t think I did, no.”

  “Points like that are important.”

  “I’ll try to do better next time,” said Every apologetically.

  “I can’t tell you a great deal about the explosive until I’ve had time to study it further. From its composition I should say that it was of European manufacture, not English and certainly not American.”

  “Belgian, do you think? From AMG Brussels.”

  “Possibly. It could equally well be French or German. One thing I did notice. It seems to have been in contact, at one time, with chocolate. Not a usual ingredient of explosives in my experience.”

  “I think that’s easily accounted for,” said Every. “It probably came across with or in a slab of chocolate. We know they’ve been experimenting with the postal route. In fact we located one of their accommodation addresses the other day and had it staked out. If they use it again it might give us a real lead.”

  “I trust so. I shall be able to give you more accurate details when we’ve finished the chromatographic work. Meanwhile, I can only advise you to be very careful.”

  Every thanked the Professor. He promised to be very careful.

  Previously, when Haydn-Smith had wanted to have a word with the head of his Anti-Terrorist Squad, he had either telephoned him or dropped into his office. When, on this occasion, he sent a formal note, from his secretary to Commander Salwyn’s secretary, requesting his presence at eleven o’clock that morning, it did not need a very skilful reader of the omens to detect that trouble was brewing.

  Salwyn was sorry. Up to that point, his relations with the Assistant Commissioner had been reasonably friendly. He had been allowed to run his own department without much interference and had achieved, he thought, a modest degree of success in an unquestionably tough assignment. Also he was one of the few senior officers who approved of Haydn-Smith. It would be an exaggeration to say that he liked him. Haydn-Smith was not a man who invited affection from his subordinates; but he respected the competence with which he did his work.

  When he went in, the Assistant Commissioner had a letter in front of him and Salwyn, reading the address upside down, saw that it came from the private office of the Home Secretary. Since it was dated that day, it must have been sent round by hand and was therefore important.

  Haydn-Smith said, “I have been given a preliminary notification that C13 is to come under the jurisdiction of the Special Branch. I thought it right that you should be informed. Also that I should let you know that the change is contrary to my known views.”

  His voice was flat, almost conversational. Salwyn realised that he was in a cold fury. He said, “I see, sir.”

  “I don’t suppose you have any idea why our masters have seen fit to make this change?”

  Careful, boy, thought Salwyn. Very careful. Easy to provoke an explosion.

  He said, “I believe there has been a feeling, sir, for some time that such a change might be logical. Administratively logical, I mean.”

  “Explain that.”

  “Well, sir, my branch often has to work closely with Special Branch. Guarding of VIPs for instance. That’s almost always a joint job. Then, most of my men came to me from Special Branch originally.”

  “And that seems to you to be an adequate reason why they should return to it.”

  “I’m afraid it’s all a bit above me, sir. I’m just a plain bobby who does what he’s told.”

  Haydn-Smith thought about this, tapping his desk with his pencil. He knew very well that it was not Salwyn who was responsible for the change. He knew, since such matters are difficult to conceal, that Elfe had been to see the Prime Minister.

  “All right,” he said, “it’s done and I suppose we have to live with it. There’ll be a lot of administrative details to work out. Change of accommodation and new pay arrangements. ‘A’ branch will see to all that. I’ll have a word with Mortimer this afternoon.”

  “Right, sir,” said Salwyn. He half rose from his chair.

  “Before you go, there are two things I want to make clear. First, an idea seems to be gaining currency that anyone can call on the SAS to help in police operations.”

  “I have used them myself on three occasions, sir. Each time with your consent.”

  “Certainly. And each time, before I agreed, I applied to the Ministry of Defence through General Usher. In other words we observed the proper procedure. However, I’m not sure that Special Branch has always been so scrupulous. So you might warn your new masters that the General is getting more than a little restless and that if any further attempt is made to use the SAS as a private police force, without his consent, he is prepared to—well, he is prepared to get unpleasant about it.”

  “I quite understand, sir.”

  “Good, then one other thing. The administrative moves can be set on foot now, but the change does not become effective until the end of next month.”

  “The end of December?” said Salwyn, thoughtfully.

  “Midnight on December 31st and until that time any order
s which I have given remain in force.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “I am making the point because I understand that there was some dissatisfaction about a restriction I placed recently on members of the uniform branches in ‘R’ and ‘K’ Districts being detached from routine duty and used on some special supervision job. I am not suggesting, of course, that it was this dissatisfaction which led to such a radical change as the one we are now faced with.”

  It’s exactly what you are suggesting, thought Salwyn. And it’s gall and wormwood to you.

  He said, “I think that’s very unlikely, sir. The Prime Minister must have made her mind up on policy grounds, wouldn’t you think?”

  “He was in a filthy temper,” said Salwyn, “and what made it worse was that he guessed that he’d precipitated the change himself by being so bloody obstructive about letting us have a few of his bobbies.”

  “At least he realised that he’d brought it on his own head,” said Every.

  “Gratifying,” said Mowatt, “but it doesn’t solve our immediate problem.”

  The three had met, at Mowatt’s suggestion, in his office overlooking St James’s Park station. All of them realised that their affairs had reached crisis point. If the IRA were allowed to succeed in their bloody programme for Christmas, the results could be dramatic. Dissatisfaction with the Anti-Terrorist Branch could even lead to the taking-over of its duties by the Army. If, on the other hand, they disregarded General Usher’s warning and threw the SAS uninvited, into the battle, this would give its enemies in the Ministry of Defence a weapon which would enable them to emasculate their Counter-Revolutionary Warfare Team and neutralise the advantages which had been gained by their dramatic success in the Iranian Embassy siege.

  Mowatt was the most level-headed of the three. He had seen a lot of in-fighting and departmental jealousy; he had also experienced unexpected helpfulness and co-operation. So much depended on personalities. He said, “The really awkward thing is the timing of the change. Haydn-Smith is sticking to it, I suppose.”

  “Midnight on December 31st. Not a minute earlier.”