The Widow's Son

by Daniel Kemp

  “And who are you?” politely I asked of a fresh-faced man no more than twenty-five-years of age, of the same height of me but a fraction of my build.

  “Mathew, sir, deputy duty officer.”

  “Very well, Mathew, and where's your number one?”

  “He has a bit of a belly problem, sir. Probably in one of the loos; again.”

  “I see. And what is his name?”

  “Abraham, sir!”

  “Okay, Mathew, how many more from lamp-burners did we then assign to him?”

  “In total we have seven, sir, but that number does not included the two on stationary watch opposite the Delegation.”

  My head was swimming with names, facts and dates but at least with this biblical naming structure the faces of the heads of departments might change, but their names did not. It was useful with less to remember, I told myself, then quietly laughed at my forgetfulness.

  “Remind me again who's station officer, Hannah?”

  “Solomon, sir. He'll be with his staffers in the two rooms they have at the back of the building on the ground floor. He and they will be watching the same scenes as us.”

  “Sergeant Cooper, please ask him to attend my office at his earliest you know what. I'll need you, Mathew, and of course you, Hannah. I think we'll leave Abraham to the latrines. If he should emerge tell him there's a shout on, but to keep well away, Peter. No, a change of mind on that. Send him home with orders to report back here only when he's fit for duty.”

  “I'm sorry, sir, but there's a blue flag alert from 6. The expected incoming has arrived at Aleppo airport.” It was a voice I had not heard before from somewhere along the line of flashing screens.

  “Okay, I'm going have to rely on you, Hannah, for most of this while I catch up. I want your normal in-house procedures adhered to and open any auxiliary communications access to GCHQ and AIG that you may have. We can't afford to have any main lines crash with no back-up on occasions such as this. I want the duty officer on the second floor at Millbank and his counterpart on the Syrian desk at Vauxhall on line as soon as possible, Mathew, and you smooth talking them. There is no need for anyone to be alarmed or any notifications to top-floor personnel flying around just yet. As you're fully aware I'm a long way off knowing what's what around here. As soon as Solomon shows, someone point him in my direction, please. I will need him.”

  As I flopped into the waiting chair in my office wishing there was a game of rugby to watch instead of two immensely serious developments that would require me to comment and act upon at some time soon, I could no longer contain my pent-up irritation at being unprepared. The two shouted words of 'fucking hell' summed up how I felt. Then, much quieter, I added, “All I want now is the effing Russian army to march into Estonia and I might as well go up on the roof and play with the fairies.”

  “The soundproofing doesn't work until the door is fully closed, sir. I think everyone now knows that you're a human and not a robot like some I won't mention.” It was an all-smiling Hannah holding the door open. I returned her smile.

  “Well, I'll count that as a plus on a day when there are so many minuses. That centre screen, is it the waiting lounge at Aleppo airport?” I asked, thinking only Hannah was in the room.

  “It is, sir, yes,” answered a man who I had not seen before and I had not seen arrive.

  “And you are?” I asked.

  “Solomon, sir, your station officer.”

  “Right, good, you're just in time to tell me if that fair-haired chap being greeted by the Arab with the red sash across his shoulders is the target of this exercise?”

  “Yes, that is him, sir. We had the shout with the photograph moments ago. I have the photograph and profile story here.”

  “I need neither, Solomon, but thank you. I want you to set up a three-way depressed radio link to GCHQ, and Geoffrey Harwood, whom I presume will be at home. This will now have to go higher than Mathew's link to duty officers. We need the deputy directors at Millbank and at Vauxhall both at the end of a telephone before I've finished with GCHQ and Mr Harwood. Make sure that when you call both services, Solomon, you first ask the receptionists for Sir Elliot Zerby and Sir John Scarlett. I have no wish to rub anyone up the wrong way on my first day by forgetting their bosses' knighthoods. However, at this stage I do not want the two Director Generals. I want their deputy heads only. Have we anyone on Razin, Hannah?”

  “Two in a car and one on foot. Shall I muster more, sir?”

  “I think it's too late for them to make a difference, but please do.”

  “Please make sure that door is firmly closed when you leave, Hannah.” Her wide appealing lips wore a soft smile as she and Solomon turned and left.

  If I was required to be honest then I admit to suspecting that I was being outmanoeuvred as soon as Harwood replaced the telephone after the morning's invitation to a callbox, but it had never crossed my mind that I'd be left to sink so quickly and drowned by what I was watching. As the scene in the airport lounge played out I realised that I really had been done over and perhaps not just by the other side.

  Chapter Five: Uncle Fraser

  A pitiless jumble of snow and rain carried on a brutish, swirling wind greeted me as I walked the short distance from the warmth of my official car to Fraser Ughert's open door of his palatial home in the wilds of Chearsley, in Buckinghamshire, about twenty miles from Oxford. It was past midnight that Friday when I arrived.

  “Why did you make such a fuss by turning this visit into an official one, Patrick, you know you're more than welcome at any time? I was expecting the next telephone call to be from the PM asking if I was up to seeing the new head of Group. Hardballs was punching particularly low. Said he wasn't surprised that you wanted to see me, but was surprised that I had agreed.”

  “I know I'm welcome and so does everyone connected to the Service including Harwood, or Hardballs as you prefer, Fraser. I don't think I can afford to even try to dodge their interest. The cameras they're using nowadays can be a pain in the arse as well as an instrument for good. I've been set up and I'm buggered if I know why. Sir John Scarlett at 6 has a one-time Irish operative of mine being filmed walking into Syria on a surveillance camera everyone knows I'm monitoring. Whilst a Russian, I don't know what, acts as a diversion. I saw my operative, Liam Catlin, lying in a pool of his own blood ten foot away from me when a bomb exploded in the Erin Arms pub, in Derry, almost nine months ago. What's more, whilst I was laid up in an army hospital plugged into too many machines to count I spoke to Peter Levy, the Home Office chief pathologist, and he confirmed Liam's death. Now why would he do that if he wasn't dead? And why does this Russian lieutenant general emerge at the same time Catlin appears three thousand miles away? I never buy into coincidences. I'm inclined to believe he was telling me that he knew what was happening but was not part of it. Somebody is playing a long game here and I'm happy enough to play as well, but I'm not being the sacrificial pawn at the start of any game.”

  “I see, Patrick, but I'm sure there's a rational reason for all of it. Let's start at the beginning, shall we? Why was there the need for you to speak to a pathologist about the incident in Ireland? Straightforward case, I would have thought.”

  We were entering the drawing room from the hallway and taking our positions seated each side of his inglenook fireplace with a roaring log fire to warm my aching bones. I managed to stretch out my legs and ease the pain in my foot after that two-hour atrocious drive from London.

  “Political! I was told the Irish Office in Whitehall were sweating over possible future legal action coming from relatives of the civilians that were killed or wounded in the pub. Beyond me, but there you have it. I was checking on the numbers.”

  “So you never attended the post-mortem?” he asked as he pushed the three-quarter-full decanter across the small table between our chairs towards me.

  “No, didn't have time. You know how it is.”

  “And I know the tricks top floor can pull. I think you'd better
grab your glass and follow me, laddie.” With his index finger across his lips he led the way to what he called his bunker; his office on the front corner of the house. The room was full of filing cabinets and furniture but nothing could subdue the smell of pipe tobacco. With the door firmly closed behind us I took up the conversation.

  “Never thought of opening a window and letting in fresh air, Fraser? This smoky atmosphere can't be good for your health.”

  “If I open a window any Tom, Dick or Harry can aim a directional microphone in through the gap and the same could apply to an extractor fan. The tobacco smoke is part of me, laddie. In any case this room must be kept airtight. You see I don't think it's you that they're after, Patrick, it's me and what I know. This place is as secure as anything there is in this country. The glass is specially made to obstruct any speech monitors aimed inside and as I value my privacy, it also jumbles up the camera shots. We can make some remarkable equipment in this country. The books that stack the shelves are fake. They are an anti-bugging device invented by a Scottish friend of mine. Let's get on with business though. I'm pleased you've met Henry Mayler as I believe he is the key to it all. If he had not been who he is I would never have taken him on and become his case officer. There were a lot quizzical faces turned my way when that happened. Have you seen that tattoo of his?”

  “Yes, I have but I didn't see any comments on it from you in his file.”

  “You won't. That tattoo is the clue to what he is. Look, I'm not going to mess you around with pretty stories or tales of spin. It's my opinion that although Henry's tattoo must have been seen by many in our business before me, none were either unaware of its sensitive background, or could not find the connection to his birth. When I discovered it all I hid it. I hid it from every intelligence department in this country. It would have stayed hidden if Fyodor Nazarov Razin had not emerged from his hole.”

  “Were you successful in concealing it from the American services?” I asked before he could continue.

  “Of course I was. I certainly don't want them spooked.”

  “Then I don't know why there's an American 'hands off' notice plastered on my Russian. Care to get down to some of the graphics of this, Fraser?”

  “I will but I can only give you so much tonight. I'm afraid there are not enough hours to tell you it all. I need my sleep nowadays. Mrs Ughert's domineering nature has trapped its quarry since I became a septuagenarian three weeks ago.”

  “Do you think you were forced to retire, Fraser?” I asked without much compassion in my voice.

  “Force as in power or strength then no, seventy was always going to be the official cut-off age for me, but I was hoping to continue my influence into next year because of Henry, and I'm still hoping I'll be able to manage that, but time is running short for what I believe is about to happen. There's nothing sinister to my retirement, but I can't allow Mayler to be handled by anyone other than me at the moment. I don't know the whole story yet, laddie, and I want to. Perhaps your Russian, Mr Raynor, may have the answers.” He gave me that avuncular look of his that so annoyed Geoffrey Harwood. He lit his old meerschaum pipe and I added to the smoky haze by lighting one of my cigarettes. He filled our glasses up before continuing.

  “I believe the tattoo to be the sign of a mystical order, thought to have vanished some six hundred years ago, called the Rosicrucian Fraternity. Mayler's tattoo was said to be the symbol of that organisation and was referred to as the Rosey Cross.”

  “That ties a loose end up for me and as you know who Fyodor Nazarov Razin is, it makes it even better. Henry Mayler told me of his meetings with Razin where he was called Rosco, short for Rosicrucian perhaps. He had no answer for it and I believed him. Was I wrong, Fraser?”

  “Not at all wrong. Let me explain some things. When Geoffrey Hardballs had your chair at Group and Sir Gerald Butler was Director General at 6, Butler called me one day and invited me to lunch. That in itself was suspicious as it was the only invitation I'd ever had from him. He never even asked me out to lunch when I took over as chair of joint intelligence.

  “He told me that Arthur Drefus, a dean at Oxford and a long-term talent scout for the security services, that I knew very well, had signed up an Armenian German with what looked like some sort of secret order tattoo on his hand. Drefus was very unhappy about a couple of things though; one being the tattoo. Despite those reservations he said the boy had huge potential if he vetted well, so he passed his papers on to 6, eventually landing on Butler's desk. Butler said he firmly believed nobody had picked up on the importance the recruit represented, not Drefus or any in vetting. Nearing the end of that lunch he passed me a slim file with no heading or classification, and he told me of his retirement plans.

  'I'll be off within three months, Ughert, I have my retirement planned, but before I leave you and I are going to create a false cover to handle this Henry Mayler chap Drefus has recommended. I know you're on the square and I also know of your extensive knowledge of the history of masonic rituals and the parallelisms to hieratic customs. Mayler is a Rosicrucian and not just an ordinary one at that. Look at his birth date—03/01/1970. The numbers, when added, equal twenty-one, divisible by three. By the time 2003 is here Mayler will be thirty-three on 03/01/2003, the date adds up to nine and if divided by three we get three, with Mayler having two more threes in his age. You and I both know the significance of the number three to the whole of the Masonic order in all of their diversities. You and I are also aware of the list of Masonic degrees. You will be seventy, I believe, a few months before Mayler reaches that pinnacle of time and I'm hoping you will still be around to handle him or at least guide someone else in his handling. Perhaps by then you will know what he's up to and stop or help him, depending on what it is. At this moment in time I can supply no reason to suspect anything harmful to this country, but I'm a suspicious old fart and I think you are too'.”

  When Fraser finished recalling that conversation he looked ill at ease, fiddling with his pipe and rubbing his blue-veined nose. There was something he was hiding.

  “Geoffrey Harwood asked me if I knew anything of Freemasonry on the drive to the farm, Fraser. When I told him I didn't, he implied that I would be hearing more.”

  “Yes, Hardballs has mentioned it more than once recently to me.” His face took on a grave expression as he tried to fashion a smile. My mind was in third gear racing into a corner where I didn't want to turn over.

  “Did Razin dig up the significance Henry represented to us and now he's haunting you with it, do you think?”

  “I am thinking along those lines, Patrick. Yes, that could well be the reason he's here.” He knocked out his pipe and stared at the wall opposite.

  * * *

  Fraser Ughert and I had known each other for some thirty years, in which time we'd worked together on a couple of assignments, including the one with Jack Price and Job where I'd lost my toes. In that time a shared respect had developed between us and a deep trust, but he had divulged a secret that was not his to tell and I could see it worried him. He had always been a painfully thin man, accentuated by his predilection of wearing clothes at least two sizes too big, but as he rose and moved towards a hitherto unopened bottle of malt whisky I noticed how unsteady he was on his feet, rocking from foot to foot.

  “I changed the antecedents of all members in Mayler's family, Patrick. Had I not I'm not sure what would have happened. I'm not sure anything would have, but I was not going to chance it.” At least his smile had return to normal by the time he regained his seat.

  “All I do know is that Henry Mayler is a big fish in someone's pond. Henry's grandfather was never a doctor, in truth he was a rocket scientist for the Nazis who, in 1946 with his wife, walked from the Soviet sector of Germany into the American part using a crossing point at Helmstedt-Marienborn. At that time in history there was not the physical barrier that Churchill described as the Iron Curtain. Germany was a mess at the end of the war that the Soviet army gave itself little chance to cl
ear up, being more interested in what it could take from the German people than what the German people could do for them. There was one Russian not so badly focused; Marshal General Georgy Malenkov, who Stalin had appointed in charge of missile technology. Sorry, this where the lesson gets a little boring but it's necessary.

  “Under the leadership of Lavrentiy Beria, head of the MGB, Ministry for State Security, Malenkov helped to organise the takeover of Central and Eastern Europe with specific instructions to recruit ex-Nazi rocket engineers into the blossoming Soviet missile programme. Magdeburg, Henry's grandfather's home town, was a central location for Hitler's rocket manufacture, and one of the top scientists of the facility was Arek Mayler. Malenkov appointed a Colonel General Sergei Kruglov in charge of the Magdeburg region, who unknown to Malenkov was a member of the Rosicrucians and the Freemasons. Can you see where this is going, Patrick?”

  “It's a bit blurred but I'm willing to learn,” I replied, suppressing a real yawn.”

  “Okay, I'll move it along at a pace to keep you awake, young man. Arek Mayler's passage across the divided Germany was made easier by Kruglov for two reasons: one, they shared the same order of Rosicrucians, and two, Kruglov had Mayler in his pocket because there were remaining members of the extended Mayler family still alive and living in Magdeburg. Arek worked as a spy for the Russians, stealing anything of worth from the Americans for whom he worked at the Los Alamos laboratory until it closed a year after he arrived in 1947. He then went to work for the Atomic Energy Commission at their Hanford site, working on weapon grade uranium until he was ordered by his Russian handler to take up residence in London in 1954, and to practise as a doctor, which at one time he was but that was a long time ago.”

  “But you wrote him up as a fully functioning doctor, Fraser, with printed certificates and qualifications?”