The Widow's Son

by Daniel Kemp

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Are you telling me that you covered Arik's back and you're doing the same for his grandson Henry Mayler, while he too works for the other side? Because if he does work for the Russians then why are we relocating him and what on earth is going on?”

  “Let me go back a fraction to Colonel General Sergei Kruglov. That seemingly insignificant man became minister for internal affairs of the whole of the Russian Federation. He was fluent in several foreign languages, including English and was awarded the Legion of Merit and created an Honorary Knight Commander of the Order of the British Empire for organising the security of the Yalta Conference and the Potsdam Conference during World War II. But he and us didn't finish there. When the two branches of Russian national security were merged, he became head of the new MVD, the precursor of the KGB. That was when Mayler came to London, in March 1954. It wasn't a coincidence, nor was the name of Raynor being used as his cover name. Are you following where the Rosicrucian connection comes in now?”

  “No,” I replied.

  I didn't expect his silence. I was gazing at those fake books whilst attempting to concentrate on the story, but when he stopped speaking I thought he might have taken offence at my apparent lack of respect and be about to rebuke me in his customary Scottish manner. But as I gazed towards him I saw a contorted mess of a man half sitting, half standing with his head falling to one side with a look of sheer terror plastered on wide eyes as his spectacles fell from a hand which clutched at his chest in panic. I watched as they bounced on the carpet without breaking, only for him to tread on them as I reached out and stopped him from falling.

  “Top drawer, this desk. Small bottle of a red spray. Hurry, laddie!” he spurted out, gasping for air, with both his arms around my neck as I lowered him to the floor.

  Chapter Six: Saturday AM

  To my surprise, but fortunately not to my humiliation, Razin was outside the Russian Consulate at the same time on Saturday morning as he had been on every morning for the last five, only this time he turned right instead of left towards the underground station. He wore the same unmistakable coat with the fur collar turned up and as a further precaution against the bitter north wind, a beige woollen beanie hat. I had covered my back by having as many operatives as I could on the street if he did show, but as the Silver Vaults in Chancery Lane were closed I had concentrated what I had nearer Notting Hill Gate. The only intelligence we had from the vaults was the name of the man Razin always contacted, and the fact that he always carried away four unfolded envelopes in those huge pockets of his on the journey to Highgate where he unloaded them. We had no idea what was in those envelopes. The named trader was an American with an FBI and police record from here. The FBI one was for an armed assault some thirty years back and here he had flagged up as 'a person of interest' on a recent bullion robbery. Without his marriage to an English woman, who had since passed away, he would never have gained British citizenship. We had nothing on him, and could not guarantee that his name would not light up any interested American monitor if we paid an uninvited visit. We couldn't lift him and risk alerting Razin.

  The total weekend staff at The Hole was the same as Friday's, however, my weekend Hannah was more the image of what I had expected; efficiency with no frills. The duty officer, Abraham, looked younger than the deputy I'd seen yesterday but I was pleasantly pleased to see the same Solomon who had been on duty the day before. Despite the fact that I had no tangible explanation I felt more in control this morning than I had done the previous day.

  At the Consulate I had two lamp-burners with an additional two in two cars, then there were three others, in the two remaining cars I had available. I was confident that with the static satellite cover providing an overhead view I had enough. My eyes were glued to the visual display unit in front of me whilst I listened to the tape recording of my meeting with Fraser the night before. He'd had an attack of angina, but thankfully he was well equipped to deal with it having, so he told me, suffered from them for a good many years. After the self-administered mouth spray, he found his breath and he was able to add one additional comment before his wife, Molly, led him away, confused over who deserved her cutting glare the more. He said,

  “Gerald Butler arranged for the Maylers to move to England, Patrick, knowing exactly what Henry's grandfather was. Search for Meredith Paine. He and Sir Gerald ran the whole operation from 1954 onwards, but Kruglov was ours well before then. Look up who Oswald Raynor was. It might become clearer if you find what he did and begin to understand why Butler had no choice but cover everything up.”

  That's what I must do, I told myself, observing the screens as the coffee I'd ordered arrived; but I said it out loud. “I must find Paine.” My two heads of departments and my personal assistant looked startled, but the girl who had brought the coffee went ashen-faced and hurried off towards the kitchens before I had time to request a spoon. I thought it best to drink the coffee without sugar rather than risk more anxious examination of my word—Paine. As the warming, but bitter drink hit the back of my throat I watched Razin make his way briskly along Bayswater Road towards Marble Arch. Along with Solomon I retreated to my office to watch not only him, but for any more signs of Liam Catlin around Aleppo airport.

  * * *

  I had read the compact files on all of my station officers, but the one who was here on Friday and again today stood out above the rest. Real name Michael Simmons, aged thirty-six years, rank of station officer for three of them. He walked with shoulders back and swinging arms in a military fashion, practised no doubt whilst serving in the Life Guards, the senior regiment in the British Army and having a nickname that reminded me of Geoffrey Harwood—The Piccadilly Cowboys. Simmons' file read as though it should have been him promoted to my chair instead bringing in a street man like myself from outside the club. The short exchange of pleasantries I'd shared with the man only served to increase my inquisitiveness as his accentuated r's and elongated s's were of the same manner as Harwood who had served with The Sherwood Foresters before they were amalgamated with another regiment. If the two of them did share similarities then I could not imagine Geoffrey scurrying around in the same fashion as this Solomon seemed to have done on Friday.

  * * *

  My three lamp-burners were doing the job of keeping in touch with Razin by staying close enough to see if he spoke to anyone, but hopefully not being noticed by him. Solomon had moved the three in the two cars ahead of all this, waiting in side streets out of sight. Razin turned left from Bayswater Road into Edgware Road, and he entered the first café he came to. Within seconds a woman in her forties and a man in his thirties appeared on the two streets corners flanking where he sat. They were both wearing bright yellow tabards with the word of the charity for the homeless—Shelter emblazoned on them. They were ours! Each carried an equally bright yellow collecting bucket which they shook whilst trying not to watch Razin selecting a hubble-bubble pipe to puff on. Hannah could not find anything recorded on agency databanks about the Lebanese café to cause suspicion, but Solomon pointed at the waiter who took Razin's order and then delivered his coffee.

  “I'm sure that's Oman Rezach, a known Iraqi member of Al-Qaeda who's wanted in connection with the Nairobi Embassy truck bombing four years ago. I'll post it through recognition then get in touch with the Africa desk at Vauxhall if it comes back positive.”

  “If you're right, hold on to the information for a while, Solomon. I want to see what else he wants to show us because I believe that's exactly what he's doing. If he wants to give this one over to us I wonder if there are any more he'd like to unload.”

  It seemed to me that my first inclination to believe Razin was stringing us along for some reason was right, as he'd made no attempt to conceal his presence in this country nor had he tried to hide this morning's walk. I was trying to fathom out why that was and why he gave us a known terrorist so easily, when he rose from his table making a show of leaving what appeared to be a tip and walked to wh
ere one of the Shelter collectors was. He chose the female operative. She played the role to perfection, pushing her 'bucket' towards him and rattling whatever loose change there was inside practically under his nose. He reached inside a pocket of that coat of his and put something in the bucket. Then after a bow that Geoffrey would have been proud of he turned away from our 'collector' and waved at my other collector on the opposite corner. Was that right? Perhaps he'd stumbled? Yes, that must be it, stumbled and shot his hand out to protect himself. No, that wasn't it.

  “Did he just wave at the sky, Solomon?”

  “Worse than that, sir. Ruth, the girl holding the bucket, saw the address on the envelope he pushed into her bucket. It was addressed for the attention of Mr P West, 67 Lavington Street.”

  * * *

  I telephoned Geoffrey Harwood at his home which being a weekend was tantamount to treason; despite knowing that, I compounded the issue by swearing at him and calling him a wide variety of indecorous names. Finally I shouted, “Who knew I was fronting this operation, Geoffrey? Who effing knew?”

  Two hours later, and still as agitated, I sat opposite Harwood in his new office at No 1 Millbank, overlooking the Thames, the Box and the Houses of Parliament. I could smell his pride and taste the superiority in his answers. I could also tell how much he hated his weekend being disturbed.

  “I would have appreciated something in the way of an apology for disturbing last night's evening with Oliver, but as it appears you have a tendency of wanting to disarrange my affairs I will put a stop to it once and for all. I've absolutely no idea as to the breadth of knowledge of your appointment, Joseph, but if you're thinking there are senior officers plotting your downfall and you need a shoulder to cry on, old boy, then I'm certainly not going to massage your enormous ego. I take it that was the thought you carried on last night's flight into Uncle Fraser's arms?” He was as angry as I had been, but his self-control was better than mine.

  “No! I needed some clarification, Geoffrey. It wasn't my fault that I needed to disturb you and Oliver. You should have briefed me better.”

  “Is that what you think, is it? Why so much fuss? Why not simply ask me or just slide over to Chearsley instead of telling the whole intelligence community of your intentions? Why was that necessary?”

  “Because I don't trust half of those who make up the intelligence community and I wanted the other half to know where to look for the bodies. Why was I never told that Liam Catlin was not killed in the Derry bombing? Who deemed it necessary for it to be covered up and what the hell is he doing in Syria?”

  The customary Harwood sneer greeted that attack, the very one that had earned the label of Hardballs from more than only Fraser Ughert. It preceded his sarcastic reply.

  “Why were you never told, dear boy? Because you were being transported on horseback or, at best, a helicopter while the rest of us were floating through the universe on clouds of cotton wool taking little or no interest in the inconsequential things in life such as yourself. You were nothing more than a soldier with a soldier's responsibilities and a soldier's need to know. In other words you never needed to know. That was then, now is now. Why was it covered up? By that I think you mean why was Catlin not covered up in a body bag. Ha, ha. There's a joke there, Joseph. Oh do try not to look so glum, dear boy. Back in those dark days of unmitigated fun and violence in Ireland, you were not told about the bigger picture because you didn't know there was a bigger picture.

  “Now you are in charge at Group you're told what's hiding behind the first coat of paint the same as I was. One day the whole bloody painting will be hanging on my wall with my paintbrushes underneath and there will be no mention of you in the margins. Now, if you'll be so good as to allow me I'll get to your third ridiculous question and call an end to this farce. What the hell is Catlin doing in Syria? He's working for us within a group of Kurdish Sunnis, bestowing Her Majesty's love on their camels and horses as well. Can you see beyond that first coat of paint? Razin knows Mayler, Mayler knows Razin. Mayler has contacts within the Kurds, Bashar al-Assad of Syrian notoriety has Russia as an ally. Razin's Russian. Catlin is balancing things up by looking after our interests. The Americans want us to have no view on the situation that will develop between the Kurds and Assad and we, dear Joseph, old chap, say, well, you know what we say when told to keep our hands off.

  “You should have come straight to me before throwing a tantrum and disturbing our elder former colleagues. You will not dispose of your layers of fragility that you're trying desperately to hide any quicker by running to outside help than staying within the camp. The first thing you must consider is that we are all on the same side as you. I hope you won't be making that mistake again, dear boy. That would be a mistake too far.” The sneer had turn venomous by the look of his tightened lips and narrowed eyes.

  “I'm still waiting for you to answer my first question, Geoffrey. How did Razin know?” I was up for the fight if he wanted one.

  “Now you are becoming more than tiresome. Are you accusing me, Patrick, because if you are then—” He screwed his lips tighter, biting hard onto his bottom jaw, never allowing the threat to materialise into anything concrete. It was left floating in the air, slowly mixing with my cigarette smoke.

  Chapter Seven: Saturday PM

  It had been snowing during the day and more was falling as we drove further away from the centre of London, transforming the beauty of the English countryside from its normal alternating shades of lustrous green into a kaleidoscopic pattern of white shapes beyond a road of wet, grisly grey. I thought I'd left Mayler with the impression that I'd finished with him, and to be honest, normally what we'd spoken of and gone over would have been adequate, but none of what I'd since learned fitted any description of normality.

  Henry was huddled up alongside one of the electric heaters in his accommodation wearing a big army issue overcoat, woollen gloves and a fur hat with earmuffs. I guessed he was too cold to register any surprise.

  “Are you trying on the everyday clothing for Canada, Henry? Good to see you're getting into the spirit of it all. Acclimatising yourself with the temperature as well are we? Very good, but would you mind if I had it turned up a wee bit whilst I'm here, then you can have turned down again when I leave.” I hoped my sarcasm would not be missed by the guard who stood holding the door open.

  “Would I mind? Are you joking, Mr Funnyman? I'm freezing my balls off in here! If it gets any colder I shall be a eunuch by the time I leave. I've asked for the heating to be turned up, but who am I to request such a thing. I showed one of guys who are supposed be looking after me the ice hanging from the toilet cistern, and he laughed and asked if I was a man or a mouse.”

  “I'll have the heating turned up right away, sir,” the guard at the doorway replied before I'd asked.

  “I shall give our guest my duty officer's telephone number and if he gets cold again he will call that number. The word will climb the chain to me and when it does I will descend on you and your commander with all the considerable power I enjoy and the two of you will be spending the rest of your careers freezing at the weather station we have in the Arctic. Tell him, please, that I will make sure you both spend as much time as possible patrolling outside.” The door was closed quietly on the guard's departure, but I didn't wait until the tin hut warmed up before I re-questioned Henry.

  * * *

  We sat beside each other in the back of my ministerial car with two mugs of steaming coffee and the heater turned on full with Jimmy, my driver, and Frank, my whatever you want to call him, standing in the farmhouse doorway about ten yards away incessantly looking in the car's direction, but I was at a loss to understand why. I wondered if it was in standing orders or just an intuitive gesture of theirs specifically for me owing to the fact that Henry had a psychopathic side to his nature I had yet to read of. Perhaps it was simply because I was looking feeble in these aged years of mine, decrepit and in need of someone's muscles or eyesight to survive a chat with one of our
s? Or was he one of ours?

  “I want to go over the last meeting you had with Razin. The one that took place in Syria a week ago.” He went to speak but I stopped him. “Before you tell me that you've already told Elijah and you are sick of repeating yourself, I'm afraid I must insist, Henry. I cannot grant you a passport to a brighter future until we have covered it all.”

  He drank greedily from the mug of coffee, the steam coating the window that he sat next to. The distorted outside lights from the farmhouse transformed his sharp-cornered face into a cadaverous figure of gaunt bones and shrivelled skin. He wiped the condensation away from the window, peering aimlessly into the clear night's sky before he began.

  “I don't often see this side of the buildings,” he announced with a tone of regret in his voice. “They have, on a few occasions, allowed me to walk through the yard where I'm told the modernistic milking sheds are, but walking there is kept to a minimum. I was told the cows choose when they want to be milked and wouldn't want to see me before that happened. I might spook them, they said. I thought that was funny. Me, a city boy, spooking a wild animal instead of the other way around, madness!” A look of sadness descended upon him which his next observation did nothing to remove.

  “The milking is all done by an automated system, apparently. When I was told, it made me wonder how long it will be before there will be no jobs for humans? But I guess there will always be one for us, Mr Joseph, men on the ground as it were.” I didn't answer nor did I think he wanted one. He did want to talk.

  “Do you know what my first job for the service was, Mr Joseph? Have you got that far yet in my memoirs?”