The Widow's Son

by Daniel Kemp

  There were no Royals to face in the room with its continuation of maroon decor and silent ambiance, but the braid of the distinguished crest of rank was impressive just the same. We were introduced to the other man in the room by a short, charismatic woman aged around forty plus, with blonde hair and a soft reassuring voice. Her name was Margaret and he was Air Chief Marshal Sir Graham Overton. He was, Margaret told me, Chief of the Defence Staff. We remained standing, staring at each other until the Prime Minister arrived through a door that was hidden in the far wall. As he sat, the wall to our left became one massive cinematographic screen. I wondered if Harwood had copied the idea but then I thought it unlikely he had ever been in this room. My ego was getting ahead of me. It wasn't long before Geoffrey's name was mentioned. The PM and Sir Graham had been notified of his detention and Fyodor Nazarov Razin's disappearance. Henry's death and the Masonic connection was briefly commented on.

  A note was passed by Margaret to the Prime Minister, who then required an update on the drone strike that killed Arif Belmokhtar in Syria. He looked at me for that answer. Most of all he wanted elucidation on the role that Belmokhtar was suspected of playing within Al-Qaeda.

  “I know he's a British citizen but Syria is not exactly Sussex, is it. We need to smooth the diplomatic waters, Mr West, and quickly. We can't allow a situation to develop in that part of the world at present. It's hostile enough.”

  I told him what I knew, which amounted to very little, adding that all was in hand at Group. He looked puzzled, but a smiling, nodding Margaret seemed to satisfy him.

  The gigantic screen at the end of the room became split maps of the Middle East and Sir Graham was pointing to the British military bases that could be under threat by weapons aimed at them from Iraq if the information in the pages of Fraser's case study was correct. That was when Razin's credentials were questioned.

  'Is the intelligence still current? Can we trust it now he's absconded? Was he spinning us a lie from the start? Where is he hiding and when will he be found?' I said nothing about the arrangements Razin and I were to make regarding his escape, in fact I had not even mentioned it to Fraser or anyone else. Our meeting lasted about an hour with Margaret taking shorthand notes and occasionally speaking into the PM's ear. His questions were astute and appeared to be welcomed by the Chief of the Defence Staff. He asked for our views on the threat the world at large faced from the weaponised anthrax and any long-term feasibility of the aims contained within the Gladio B file which he had read in parts. He asked me first.

  I have always had a confrontational side to my character, never missing out on a chance for an argument or worse, but there was something hauling that side of me into order as I looked at him in search of a reasoned answer. Not so long ago I might well have answered, kick in a few doors, smash a few kneecaps, and pick the bones up later. I didn't offer that as my advice. Instead I tactfully suggested he speak with allies and decide a combined approach to both the immediate threat and the ones laid out in chronological order, up to and including the year 2028 and in some cases extending to 2034 and perhaps beyond. I felt a tingle of satisfaction as he looked at me and without the need of a spoken word, bowed his head in my direction.

  “If you ever get fed up with the intelligence service, Patrick, I reckon you would get a recommendation from him for the diplomatic corps.” Fraser was in his best complimentary mood as we returned to daylight and an awaiting ray of sunshine on Hannah's face.

  “Who is this Arif Belmokhtar, that the PM knew of but I didn't, Patrick?” Fraser asked as soon as we were back in the car and exiting Downing Street through the flashes of cameras held by tourists and Christmas shoppers. If there were any press photographers I imagined snaps of us three would leave them perplexed.

  “He was spotted by Liam Catlin, Fraser. His real name was Paul Gardener from somewhere called Ponders End.”

  “Paul Gardener? I know that name,” he replied poignantly.

  We were driving through the mournful suburbs of south west of London when it started to rain. That dismal damp rain of winter that just spreads the grime further than most festive spirits can cope with. I was bordering on the doldrums when Fraser broke the silence in the car.

  “So what have we with this Wilmington chap, Patrick?”

  “Michael Simmons is working that, Fraser, but at the moment all we have is that Giles Wilmington and his wife Paige are joint owners of a private sex club just off Putney Heath. Michael Simmons and his burners are sifting through the membership. As of yet we have found no other managers or upper level names, but he has found a Russian. Apparently, a property developer living in Cheam, near Sutton. Simmons is looking for connections. It's going to be a slow laborious job for a while.”

  “Did you get to look at Geoffrey's log at AIS, Patrick, after we were speaking of the Hands Off notice that seemed to originate from there?”

  “I did, yes, and I've had him interviewed him about it.” I looked at Hannah, who reached inside her briefcase and withdrew a small tape recorder.

  “Hannah has it recorded, Fraser.” She passed the machine across to him with the earphones attached. Her perfume was more intense as she leant across me.

  “Where are you spending Christmas, Hannah?” I asked secretively as Fraser was listening to Harwood's explanation.

  “I'm undecided, sir. My aunt is going to her sister's home in Wales. She's leaving tonight in order to miss the great exodus for the holidays. I have an open invitation to my brother's home. I have the one brother and one sister. She will be going to his, as she is unmarried like me. He has three adorable children who still believe in the magic of Christmas. Will you still be going to Chearsley, sir?”

  I wish I'd had an answer to that but I didn't. Things were happening by the hour that changed the whole perception of the problems that lay ahead, one of which we were on our way to see.

  “What did you make of Harwood's reply, Patrick? He's a man of fine words, I must say.” Fraser had finished the tape which he handed back to Hannah, saving me from supplying an answer to her question.

  “I skimmed past the flowing rhetoric as quickly as I could. As you say, he's good at that. I found the logged signal from the US Libreville outpost in Gabon that he cites as the source, and my contact in the CIA over here confirms that Libreville is on their index. It's got a heavy occupation unit for reasons he never elaborated upon. I never knew but the Americans and the French have strong likings for the place. That could be because it's one of the most prosperous countries in Sub-Saharan Africa with loads of oil and raw materials, but hey, who am I to speculate. It's also got a corrupt government with advancing Russian devotees. Razin being in that part of world in '86/7 was confirmed, but why would a Hands Off signal emanate from such a faraway post? Why not from London? He was after all in London and not in Gabon.”

  “I can't answer that, Patrick, but if it's not on the level then why leave a trace back to Greenwich and his AIS? I was never his most ardent admirer but I never marked him down as stupid either. That bit doesn't make sense to me. Another thing that's eating away is why give Henry Mayler, who he had never met and only read scraps of, a phone and for goodness sake a cyanide tablet? A bit 'Cold War drama', don't you think?”

  “I do, yes, but where else did Henry get them? I'm thinking he's trying to obscure certain things by being obvious about others. Goading us into thinking that he couldn't be that stupid.”

  The rain was getting heavier and the clouds lower as we drove ever south towards the New Forest and the grounds surrounding Palace House, Beaulieu, the ancestral home of the Montagu family. It served many purposes of the intelligence services, one perhaps best kept a long, long way from the public domain.

  * * *

  Geoffrey was inconsolable in his anguish. The bruising to his torso and upper legs were ugly in their colouration of merging blues, yellows, whites and mauves. He was naked, shivering, and sopping wet. It wouldn't take the brains of a medically trained observer to tell you that he was
a broken man on the point of catching pneumonia. There was no bed in the room he was kept in. No blanket or stool either. No toilet, no hand basin. A room without dignity, just full of fetid air that held no promise of salvation. A stone floor and stone walls make an uncomfortable place to stay when naked, shivering, and wet. I had no power to arrest Harwood. Nobody in the intelligence services had that power. Not even the director and Chairman of the Joint Intelligence committee can arrest a British or foreign subject.

  But we can detain those we suspect of spying, or of treason. Our method of compiling evidence is the same as an investigative police inquiry. Generally we apply patience, diligence and great care in arriving at a decision on someone's guilt. Notwithstanding that similarity, our methods of getting at the truth vary greatly from the gentle questioning in police stations to what we do at Beaulieu. I'm not made of steel. His condition upset me. I am acutely aware that those who are employed to extract what their victims do not want to give up must use a variety of methods in persuasion. However, although the methods practised at Beaulieu have been adopted by most other peacekeeping agencies, and some who have no regard to peace, they can only be described as barbaric.

  “Get him cleaned up and give him his glasses. Get him clothed and fetch him to an interview room, please.”

  * * *

  There was Geoffrey and me in the room and one other person. Geoffrey winced when he saw him. Fraser and Hannah were in the observation room where the televisions and audio recorders were and the staff who understood them. They had fairly comfortable surroundings, whereas interviewing rooms had bare wooden scrubbed tables with manacles bolted to them and three hard chairs. Geoffrey was sitting in one, handcuffed to the table with his bare feet secured to the stone floor. I was standing, hands resting on the table top.

  “I'm going to start at the beginning, Geoffrey, and please keep up. How many times did you meet with the Russian, Fyodor Nazarov Razin, from the time he appeared on Monday to when I took over at Group? That would be up to and including Friday morning?”

  “I never met with him.”

  “There are no entries in your log for three hours on Tuesday, and another three hours the following day, Wednesday 8th December, here take a look.” I passed the blue ministry personal log impressed with his name at the top across the table and the page opened on the date.

  “Was Tuesday your first meeting and Wednesday the day he handed you the briefcase full of money?”

  “I never met him,” he replied without looking down.

  I reached across the table and turned the page in the log to Thursday. The hours between 10:30 and 15:00 were blank.

  “Did this meeting constitute the formal signing-on ceremony with a list of requirements handed over by our code named Raynor?” A shake of the head this time was the answer to my question.

  “Let me recap on a question you have been asked whilst you have been here but could not answer. I will show you something that had me puzzled for some time, Geoffrey. Perhaps now you can shine more light on it for me. This is a British Transport photograph taken by the station camera at the exit to Charing Cross station on Thursday 9th December at 11:27.” I passed it across the table. “It clearly shows Fyodor Nazarov Razin on the up escalator. What's puzzling is the man shielded behind him. It's as if he's trying to hide. It was one of Simmons' staffers who noticed an irregularity in the shot, sending it to the technical lab to have it enlarged. I know this is the first time you're seeing it, but I'm sure you will find it exciting. It's the ceremonial ring that caught you out. I believe it's your regiment's ring. The eyes of the young, eh, Geoffrey?”

  “There were a few thousand men in my regiment, West. Circumstantial, nothing else. Have you got a good lawyer, because you're going to need one!”

  “I seem to remember asking you why there was a rush to install me at Group on a Friday when an introduction tour that day would have been a better policy, leaving the whole weekend for acclimatisation ready for the normal Monday morning take-over. Do you remember your reply when I said as much to you, Geoffrey?”

  “No, I do not.”

  “You said you had to take up your new position with Oliver Nathan on the following Monday, and had no time other than Friday for me. Remember now?”

  “Did I? I don't remember.”

  “Oliver has a different take on that. According to him, and the official invitation he sent to you some eleven days prior to my appointment, the post was not urgent, having no cut-off date at all.”

  The dark circles under his eyes grew larger as he began to give way to the sleep he so desperately needed. Through my headphones I asked for coffee and cigarettes. I had forgotten mine on purpose, as I was trying to give them up, but this wasn't the place for me to feel uncomfortable. I put questions about the Hands Off signal to him again only for that standard answer of 'I don't know' to be repeated. The coffee and my brand of cigarettes arrived. I smiled at Hannah's thoughtfulness as I lit one and inhaled.

  “Did you arrange for the civil police to turn out in numbers if the alarm sounded at Brightwalton in order to cover the tracks of an escaping project, or merely to slow our own investigations down, Geoffrey?”

  His eyes flickered in response but there was no reply. I picked up his log book and slammed it noisily into the table in front of him.

  “Keep awake, old boy, or I'll send you back with our friend here.” I waited for his eyes to fully open.

  “Let's go to the Farm at Brightwalton and refresh our memories. There we were together playing happy parents with the CO and a few others when all of a sudden you remembered something you had to sort out with our project. What was that something?”

  “I don't remember.”

  “You gave him a phone and a cyanide tablet, didn't you? He took that pill this morning, Geoffrey. You could face a murder charge if we ever let you out.” That's when the room exploded.

  “He did what! I never gave Henry a pill. Why would I do that?” He was pulling at the chains attached to the table and when he went to stand the colossus standing beside him simply leant on his shoulder and forced him to sit.

  “Ah, are we making progress at long last? You only gave him a phone. Is that what you're saying?”

  “I'd fallen in love with him, yes. I'd never kill him and anyway why would he want to kill himself? He had the world to live. Fraser gave him over to me when they were housing him in the Rathbone Hotel near Lord's cricket ground. Told me to take him north to the farm so I did. He was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. I sat beside him in the car and just fell instantly in love with him. I could tell he liked what I liked just by listening to him. We were two song birds together in two separate cages. I had no phone I could give then and it was awkward for me to travel there with no legitimate reason. I saw an opportunity when Oliver wanted me to change direction and become his liaison officer. Yes, West, I gave him a phone. But I would never have given him a cyanide tablet. What reason would I have to kill such a rarity as him? If I knew where to get a cyanide pill I would probably have carried one myself. Of course I used you. I wanted to know what you and Fraser were going to do with him. Fraser would never have told me. He despised me. Perhaps he guessed what I was. Who knows? But yes, I thought you might divulge what was in store for Henry. If that's my crime then hang me now, dear boy, don't waste more of this animal's energy. I have to tell you, West, that if this is all you've got on me then it amounts to a bag of shite.”

  “How about your reasons for ringing Razin and telling him he was to be outed by the Americans? Was that just kind-heartedness on your part?”

  “I can't remember doing that.”

  “I shall not keep you from the more detailed interrogation from our friend here much longer, Geoffrey, so please concentrate. What you say now will decide your treatment when I leave. Do you recall I mentioned seven men taken from a small village in Djibouti and trained as soldiers to fight alongside the mujahideen in Afghanistan against the coalition forces and how the surviving three
were captured and interrogated at Kabul? Yes, you do? Good, I thought this might get your attention. That transcript, where they identified American motorised transport seen in camp as the same type of vehicle used to abduct them, was only meant for seven pairs of eyes, Geoffrey. Yours as Director Group was one. The others I can vouch for. How do you think dear old Razin got to hear of it?”

  “Just maybe your Uncle Fraser gave him a peek, or failing that the Americans let it slide. I don't know. Go ask them, West.”

  “I did, Geoffrey, and guess what. They never got the copy you said you forwarded on to them. Did you put the wrong address on the envelope, do you think? Now's the time to tell us who flipped you, Geoffrey. It could save a lot of your suffering if you did.”

  “You put your questions so eloquently don't you, West. I was not flipped. What sort of word is that? Did you read it in a comic book? I got sick of the illusion I had to maintain. I'm queer. That's the strength of it. I no longer wanted the hired escort girl on my arm at functions pretending I was the playboy type and acting out what you lot perceive as the norm. I was no longer prepared to bow to the prejudice and heterosexism so prevalent in the social order of things within a regime that's blind to its own faults. There is too much vested interest in the status quo and it won't change. When I met with Henry Mayler I envied his openness. I wanted to be like him, live like him and be with him. I wanted to be honest with myself.”

  * * *

  “What are you going to do with him, Patrick?”

  It was Fraser who asked the question as we drew away under the gloomy sky and the gloominess of dejection. However, it was Hannah's eyes that bored holes into my soul. I should have held on to my childish annoyance, but either I hadn't learned enough of the subtle Whitehall mannerisms or I was just plain tired; whatever it was I gave her a mouthful of abuse.