The Widow's Son

by Daniel Kemp

  I was in the throes of welcoming the bonus of sleep when an almighty buzzing sounded from somewhere in part of the offices. I found my way there and watched the fax machine spewing out a message from Geoffrey's old AIS installation at Greenwich in code. It had landed simultaneously with me and the ninth floor at Vauxhall. It was sent direct from Moscow Central to Baku, in Azerbaijan.

  Date: Wed Dec22. Time: 02:14. Intercepted signal traffic from Islamabad to Kirkuk recipient name unknown, quotes— TEAM 6 states Iraqi military base KI neutralised. Target code MACHINE. Yellow/9 Bubble.

  I called the Directorate on the ninth floor. At such an hour I was surprised to hear Sir John Scarlett himself answer my call.

  “We have Baku, Azerbaijan down as a Black-Ops Rumsfeld site. By that we mean it's financed through illicit redirected military funding. We have it marked as part of the trillions missing from Pentagon budgets that Rumsfeld highlighted. We were waiting for a signal such as this one. Our overall analysis is that the President in the White House intends to bypass the UN and obliterate Iraq's nuclear power project at Kirkuk. We had that pinned as a blue project. We use the same colour codes as everyone else, so we weren't overanxious, but it seems to have notched up to yellow overnight which means it's imminent. The problem we have, is how much of this is genuine White House policy and how much of it comes from outside influence?

  “Aides at Downing Street are clamming up on this, Patrick. They say he's undecided on which picture to believe. It's my personal judgement that he will jump on the American wagon. The consensus from the Middle East department is the same, as is the Russia desk who are currently examining the bigger picture. The overall view is that it's a done deal with or without confirmation, nevertheless, I'd like to know who is controlling it.”

  “Yes, Sir John, so would I. Is there any way we can firm up the details that my Russian gave us without using him?”

  “Are we to assume that his synopsis of the situation is to be questioned, Patrick? Is Ughert of the same opinion?”

  “I'm always suspicious, Sir John. I would like second and third confirmations if that's possible. I have an appointment with the PM tomorrow and I hope to be able to put something new on the table.” Nobody beyond our triangle knew that Razin was dead and I was not about to invite newcomers.

  I was under no illusion that MI6 would strain themselves to help in this direction. I was hoping for information from Joint Task Force Southwest Asia plus something either I or Michael Simmons at Group could discover about Paul Gardener to place in front of the Prime Minister. I fell asleep and woke just after five-thirty that Wednesday morning to the humming sound of a vacuum cleaner in the office suite.

  There were four rooms to my new little empire. The communications room, where amongst many other contraptions the fax, coding and decoding machines were situated. The secretaries' room. Apparently I had three of them, all of whom started the working day at 8:30am and would be at their desks until midday this coming Friday. Then there was my office that I already described as palatial. It was also sumptuous in every detail of old-fashioned styling. Lastly there was my Personal Assistant's, or Steward's office, as large and magnificent as my own. The corridor where I had met the formidable Mrs Bayliss when Fraser had the tenure of these fine rooms, was now manned by another shift of principal protection officers. I was bedding in nicely.

  For me it was a slow realisation of the immensity of being the sole arbitrator on what the UK considered to be our at risk status. It was my role to evaluate what intelligence could be shared with friendly agencies, also what was passed on at Privy Council meetings and told to individual Ministers of State. It was me to whom the heads the intelligence services of this country passed on their current status of alert, current state of worldwide ongoing operations, along with any counter-intelligence techniques being employed. I was expected to tell Chancellors what budget was needed to protect our interests at home and abroad, and it was I who had the responsibilities of overseeing not only our military commitments but how much they were told of our ultimate aims. GCHQ, AIS and all Yellow Gate, Electronic Support Measures, fell under my jurisdiction. The only person I had a duty to tell the truth to was the Prime Minster, but what version of truth could he accept? I had no trouble with any of that, other than I never knew the full truth of Mayler's importance and I had enormous trouble managing my own life without sorting all that out.

  There was nobody else I wanted other than Hannah. I called her, and her constantly turned on telephone woke her. My sales pitch for the accommodation must have been good because she accepted my proposal of moving in the moment I stopped speaking. Jimmy drove her in a little over an hour from the time we spoke, and a ministerial van was dispatched from the transport pool to carry her belongings to the King Charles Street entrance of her new fully appointed apartment. We started our working relationship over breakfast overlooking Horse Guards Parade.

  Midmorning Air Commodore Phillip Moon, from Joint Task Force Southwest Asia was on a secure line from an American aircraft carrier in the Mediterranean. It was one of his Nimrod aircraft that had sighted the drone on its route to kill. He was emphatic that it was not a Joint Task Force strike.

  A radar calibration aircraft plotted the Predator B drone flight path from the launching site bordering the town of Antakya, southern Turkey. The hellfire missile was fired from an altitude of 1,100 feet when 800 yards from its target. We then tracked it back to its landing strip in the desert. The UAV was loaded onto a trailer unit and towed away by a US army Oshkosh tractor towards the Syrian border. The Nimrod aircraft then resumed its patrol.

  This was one hell of an expensive kill operation, not the type of weapon to find in the normal arsenal of a local Taliban warlord. The last recorded location for Narak Vanlian was in Antakya, right on top of the launch site. Coincidence I'm sure, as was the fact that he knew Simon Ratcliffe, executive officer for Venery Munitions Ltd, the first choice Ministry of Defence shipping company for untraceable weapons used to unseat unfashionable governments or maybe kill no longer wanted terrorists. But why go to all that expense to kill one person?

  * * *

  I would have loved to have traced Henry Mayler's footsteps away from Draycot Foliat and Fyodor Nazarov Razin's body, but nothing had come from the notification bulletin Special Branch had passed on to all airports and ports and as of yet no sighting had materialised. It was with only the drone update that I and Hannah travelled a novel way to the appointment with the PM.

  This time we met in the Cabinet Room on the ground floor at number 10 Downing Street. With Hannah beside me I sat opposite the PM and his media spokesperson, along with the serving Lord Chief Justice who I'd met when sworn in again on taking the chair at the Joint Intelligence Committee. The questions this time regarding the Gladio B files felt more tilted towards the legality of how the information was come by and how accurate I thought it to be, rather than any analysis Fraser and I could put on it. Mention was made of the anthrax and phosphorus ammunition, and the PM asked if it was possible that both could be in Iraq. I answered a straightforward and honest I have no knowledge on that, Prime Minister which was greeted by three all-knowing, nodding heads.

  The meeting lasted an hour with no real interest shown towards the drone's launch site. The only one present to speak of it was the media spokesman, who suggested I left it alone for the Syrian government to take up if they wanted. My palate for advice was not stronger at this meeting than any other. I forgot about it and him as soon as we left by the same way we had come; an electric motorised underground tunnel that Fraser had never spoken of.

  * * *

  Apart from a hastily grabbed lunch prepared by a delightful, smiling, Welsh housekeeper, I occupied myself with the victim of the drone strike for most of the day. Paul Gardener's name was filed twice, once as a British operative and once as a Russian agent who ran nine agents in three Afghan cells. When I was in Ireland I had a total of thirty-one informants supplying me with secrets about the IRA, but
I had only two cells, or units of more than one operative. Working one-to-one in the collection of intelligence is in total contrast to working a group of people who oppose the doctrine of another group, but have different solutions to the problem. In that scenario, it's the responsibility of the one in charge of those groups to supervise their independent actions and responses with regard to the safety of the other individuals and groups.

  To supervise any collection of individuals with different motives and targets is a dangerous game, even for the most skilled agent. I wasn't the most skilled, but the effects of the nail bomb in the Erin Arms of Derry constantly reminded me of the stupidity of espionage when it becomes personal until the close connection can be conclusively removed. Although there was never enough evidence to convict the perpetrator for that bombing I knew who it was; a tall red-haired Irishman with an assumed name and part of a cell I called The Camels. He disappeared and never showed on a security screen again. I could take you to where I shot him but there are no remains to prove what I say is the truth. Personal disputes can end in disaster of one kind or another.

  According to a report filed by Fraser, originating from Fyodor Nazarov Razin, Gardener had requested one hundred thousand dollars in 1981 when part of the Afghan Liberation Organisation to foster new informants and, in his words, 'regulate' those he had. Razin wanted the names, particularly those Gardener wanted to regulate and details on how it would be done, but he never specified whether the names came before the regulating was applied or after. Bombs can never be a pure sanitary method of killing a single target if that target stays in a crowd. Paul Gardener's problem amounted to that. The target he wanted to regulate was an Afghan government minister who no longer wanted to betray his fellow ministers and was close to betraying Gardener. Unfortunately for all concerned, the minister worked and slept in a government building always guarded by Russian troops in the centre of Kabul. He was never alone. He knew his worth. The rocket-propelled grenade not only killed the man it was intended for, it also obliterated two Russian troops; one a Captain Anton Valescov, eldest son of Bohdan Dimitriyevich Valescov, one of the powerful elite of the Soviet Union. Bohdan could afford a drone, the logistics required for the launch along with the missiles and guidance system, and if I knew anything of Russians, he had long arms when it came to revenge.

  There was one other part of my investigations I disclosed to Hannah as we held an impromptu meeting in my Persian-carpeted office with us sitting either side of my walnut inlaid mahogany desk drinking good coffee. The person who Henry Mayler met in New York back in November, on the Saturday after leaving Razin in Kabul and taking the flight from Damascus was Bohdan Dimitriyevich Valescov.

  “How the hell do you know all that, Patrick?” she asked, the sir now only to be used when necessary.

  “Because Henry made a mistake and either Fraser never looked far enough or he's holding it back.”

  * * *

  It snowed in central London on Wednesday night and for a while it settled. We were walking beside the Mall towards the Palace, as the tiny flakes blew into our eyes, nestling into our coats then melting away from view. I was wondering what kind of trick Henry had played on Razin to be able to kill him, whilst at the same time I was visualising Razin playing with his flame and knife as a captivated Henry Mayler looked on. Were the gentle falling snowflakes playing the same tricks as his flame? And would the memory I was creating with Hannah be another that must be forgotten to ease the passage of my soul into the afterlife?

  Questions, questions and then more questions. Why did Razin have to be murdered? Henry had enough information to effect his escape without Fyodor Nazarov Razin along for a car ride, he also had the phone from Harwood to arrange everything he needed. Again, why Razin? Neither snow nor Hannah's perfume mingling with the crisp air could pull my mind away from that engaging riddle. I had been invited to dinner by Sir Elliot Zenby at his club in St James's Street. The truth was I'd fished for an invitation when I learned that he was staying on in London until the Thursday before Christmas Eve. I had let it be known in the corridors surrounding my office and over the courtyard into the Home Office that I wanted a reputable London club within walking distance, where I could get away from the afflictions of Whitehall to sit and dream without being unnecessarily disturbed. Sir Elliot had offered Brooks's as his recommendation. Not unnaturally Zenby wanted to know more of Geoffrey Harwood and if his department had been breached in any way, and I wanted to know if he had more insight on the Prime Minister's thinking than Sir John Scarlett. It was a probing expedition by both of us but I figured that Hannah's presence might just swing the outcome more my way than his.

  Have you ever been in a situation where talking about nothing takes as long as if you had some really important things to say? Yes? Well, that was me with my evaluation of Harwood; it lacked any substance as did the meal I ate. However, his appraisal of the PM's thoughts was shrewd and comprehensive.

  “The Americans don't need allies in what will be their invasion of Iraq. They are the same as Russia in that respect. Neither need allies to back them in anything they wish to do. But both have interests to serve. Saudi Arabia is one the Americans have to consider; but not for too many years to come, I fancy. America is the biggest user of oil in the world, but as of yet the business interests that drive American politics cannot get their greedy hands on the wells or the refined petroleum Saudi Arabia produce. The House of Saud is too prosperous and too powerful for them on a financial front. Next to China, the Saudis hold the most American government issued bonds. If they were to cash them in it would cause a slow meltdown of the continent of the United States as we know it. I don't believe that's in the interests of whoever is driving American foreign policy. With Kuwait firmly ensconced in the American oil gathering basket, then next year Iraq and a few years down the line Iran and Syria, oil from Saudi will not be as important to America as it is now. Russia, of course, will have a say in how the oil from the Middle East will be divided, but ultimately it will be divided. The rest of us would normally have to sit by and cross our fingers.

  “However, there is another player at the OPEC table which will eventually supersede them all and it's on America's doorstep. Venezuela will be at the top of the production tree in the not too far off future. At present there is one problem to harmonise American interest. Venezuela's president—Hugo Rafael Chávez Frías, or more commonly known as Chávez. It's the view of most economists that there's just too much oil, and therefore money for him to handle. Left on his own he will squander it on social reform that will be without sustainable foundations. Our Prime Minister has his eye set on a different goal than just achieving distinction in politics or as a sidekick of President Bush. He wants universal power, Patrick, and what's more he thinks he is clever enough to get it. He and two of his aides have met with Chávez and his policy makers several times. According to the intelligence I have seen from a very reliable source inside the FBI, our socialite PM believes the American President shares the same ideals as he does. His thinking goes along the lines of, if I help you then you will help me.”

  He laughed and Hannah laughed with him. I carried on wishing I was eating Molly Ughert's roast potatoes instead of the thinly sliced garlic potatoes on my plate.

  “If, as seems highly likely, Bush goes into Iraq, we will follow. That's Scarlett's opinion as well as my own. What our boss will do then is anyone's guess, but if I was a betting man then I'd back him to leave domestic politics and jump on the business wagon giving weight to a selected few in the pharmaceutical and energy industries. It wouldn't surprise me to see him on TV endorsing a Russian car in the future. My FBI friend tells me that the PM is trying to wheedle his way into becoming the political media spokesman for Hugo Rafael Chávez Frías when he leaves Number 10. Provided of course the Americans haven't invaded or persuaded Chavez to offer his black gold to them at a discount. But ultimately, if there is a war in the Middle East, my bet is he quickly jumps ship and goes to where the remuneratio
n is the highest, cleansing his soul in it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Repercussions

  As Suzanna pulled her inflatable boat across the pebbles and smooth sand of Mount Desert Island and hid it under the low branches of a pine tree near the water's edge, the blustery dampness of the night kept the fragrance of pine low in the air invading her nose without complaint.

  Akhtala in Armenia had its fair share of pine trees under which she had played as a young child, wondering why her mother had left her until eventually she was told her beautiful mother had died. But what did that mean? she wanted to ask, not daring to in case to die was something bad that came to you in the night and swept you away. She remembered being picked up in some person's arms and gazing at a figure dressed in a white veil lying down inside a wooden box that people were gathered around crying over, but not she.

  After climbing the steep hill towards the crest she was able to look down to Jordan Pond and recall how she had never cried in all the thirty-seven years of her life. Then she started to remember the names of the ones she had given cause to cry, or scream as her methods of inflicting pain had become more terrifying as she had grown into the game she played. It was the same on any mission. Remember those that have gone, so they might not be so unforgiving when you all meet up in Hell.

  Ten feet from the crest she knelt and checked her equipment. Today she had both poisons, scopolamine and methanol she had brought a lighter as well to see how much pain lighting the methanol and dripping it into an eye socket could cause. At the top of the hill she fell. Nobody could suspect trip-wires that far from the house. During the daylight hours, when she and Irons had trekked part of the island, they hadn't ventured this high in case of being noticed, but the forest was a national park with trekking paths, so surely people wandered away from a path, she thought as she awkwardly bumped into a tree. She hadn't fallen far. Feet more than yards, but the wire had done the damage. A cosmic proportion of lights lit the night sky and swept the banking hillside where she stood against the trunk of the tree that had halted her fall.