Codename Files Nos.1, 2 & 3

by Mark Arundel

  ‘It didn’t take you long,’ I said.

  ‘Ah, no; one of the strengths of the intelligence service is that in matters of personnel it moves very quickly.’

  ‘Do you want to know how Charlotte is?’ I said.

  ‘I have the doctor’s report here,’ he said and looked down at his screen. ‘She’s going to make a full recovery.’

  ‘Yes, physically but...’

  ‘She’s strong; Charlotte will recover fully.’ I left it. ‘The doctor’s report states that she was “clinically dead” for at least two minutes and that you restarted her heart and breathing by aggressive administration of CPR.’ I remained silent. ‘You truly are an extraordinary fellow.’

  ‘You’re working on a Saturday,’ I said. Meriwether smiled and drank some coffee.

  ‘As chief of the British secret service I shall work every day,’ he said. ‘Now that I have the job they’ll have to prise it away from my cold, dead fingers.’

  ‘Was that it? Was it all about getting the job?’

  ‘Ultimately, yes,’ Meriwether said, ‘but I determined to undertake good deeds wherever possible. My plan was to support Charlotte’s career within the service. I needed her at the top table. I hoped it would present an opportunity.’

  ‘What good deeds?’ I said.

  ‘Well, Her Majesty’s Treasury are many billions of pounds richer.’

  ‘Geoffrey Button, what about him?’

  ‘Ah, yes, Geoffrey Button. His demise was an unwelcome consequence of a high-risk play. “Moneyman” was necessary to flush out the traitor. Avoiding the associated danger was impossible. Had it not been for Mosquito, I believe Button would have lived. You were the one on the ground. It’s only you who truly knows.’ Meriwether was right. Had it not been for Xing Geoffrey would have lived. I had had an opportunity to kill her but left it untaken. Actions, consequences and luck are determining factors. Geoffrey Button died and I lived.

  ‘What’s the name of the man you’ve replaced?’

  ‘His name is Monstrom Claymore or “Monty” as he likes people to call him. I prefer to call him “Monster”.’

  ‘How did you know he would come after you with a sanctioned termination? “Santiago” and the money alone don’t seem reason enough even if you are enemies.’ Meriwether smiled.

  ‘It’s a very good question,’ he said. ‘The answer is James Carmichael.’

  ‘James Carmichael, “Hoagy”, why is he the answer?’

  ‘James Carmichael was Monstrom Claymore’s nephew;’ Meriwether said, ‘his sister’s only son. And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?’

  ‘Is that a quote from Shakespeare?’ I said.

  ‘It is,’ Meriwether said. ‘It comes from the Merchant of Venice.’ I nodded and drank some coffee. Meriwether had had Xing kill James “Hoagy” Carmichael to provoke his uncle into a reckless, vengeful act. In that way, Meriwether could obtain the necessary political ammunition to secure the thing he wanted most: to be the chief of British secret intelligence.

  ‘I want to go back to the regiment,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t forget James Carmichael betrayed you for personal financial gain in the full knowledge that his action would lead to your death and that of Mosquito.’

  ‘I still want to go back,’ I said.

  ‘...why?’ he asked.

  ‘...because that’s where I belong.’

  ‘No, you belong here with me.’

  ‘You’ve got what you want,’ I said. ‘You don’t need me anymore. It’s time I went back.’ Meriwether paused while he studied my face.

  ‘I’ve decided to gift you the Pimlico apartment. It now belongs to you. Think of it as a bonus for your hard labours.’

  ‘I still want to go back to the regiment,’ I said.

  ‘Very well,’ Meriwether said. ‘May I suggest a compromise position?’

  ‘What is it?’ I said.

  ‘There’s something in the offing,’ he said. ‘It will require the formation of a small team to undertake a covert operation.’

  ‘What’s the operation?’ I said. Meriwether looked at me through lowered eyebrows.

  ‘Control of the operation will involve two services. One is the intelligence service. Your friend, Stephen Bradshaw, will serve as coordinator.’

  ‘What’s the second service?’ I said.

  ‘The second service is the regiment,’ Meriwether said. ‘The commanding officer will oversee things at his end. His name is...’ I interrupted Meriwether.

  ‘...Colonel Alistair Drummond,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Meriwether, ‘Colonel Alistair Drummond. Do you know him?’ I thought Meriwether might smile, but his face remained serene like a cat.

  EPILOGUE

  I met Snowy in St. James’s Park. He wore a woollen hat and matching coat with the collar turned up.

  ‘It is cold in London,’ he said and then smiled sardonically. ‘I knew it would be.’

  The man with him gave us distance. He was easy to spot in a dark blue suit and an expression that was less than enthusiastic.

  ‘You kept your promise,’ Snowy said.

  ‘Did I make you a promise?’

  ‘Yes, you promised to show me St. James’s Park. Do you not remember? It was on the aeroplane. You told me it was better than Hyde Park because it had the best views of London.’

  ‘Yes, it has,’ I said.

  We stopped together on the path beside the lake. Buckingham Palace showed itself big and strong through the dark, bare trees.

  Ahead, the Blue Bridge spanned the lake invitingly. Snowy followed me and we walked out to the middle. He placed his gloved hands on the blue painted railing and gripped like a child.

  Below, ducks floated on the water and the surface light reflected up like an impressionist painting.

  I turned towards the east and Snowy turned with me. We gazed at the view together. The giant Ferris wheel arced over the Whitehall buildings and above the bare treetops like a perforated semicircle in the sky.

  ‘I have read about this park in my London guidebook,’ Snowy said. ‘After you told me about it I wanted to know more. Did you know this bridge has another name?’ Snowy’s hat covered his ears. The cold air had brought a faint blush to his cheeks and helped make his insipid face elf like. ‘Some people call it the Bridge of Spies. Did you know that?’ I shook my head. ‘Do you want to know why?’

  ‘Is it because it’s where old spies come to die?’ I said. For a second Snowy looked worried, but then he realised I was joking and grinned.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘it is because spies use the bridge as their meeting place. It was very popular with Russians.’

  ‘The Russian embassy is nearer to Hyde Park,’ I said. ‘It’s at Kensington Palace Gardens.’

  ‘Why not then use a bridge in Hyde Park?’ Snowy said.

  ‘Perhaps this bridge is less crowded. Or maybe spies like the better views.’ Snowy was silent while he thought about it and then he smiled.

  ‘Yes, that must be right,’ he said. He fell silent for a moment before lifting his face. ‘Have you spoken with Grace?’

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ I said.

  ‘I wondered if she had asked after me.’ I knew how Snowy felt. I left his wondering unanswered. ‘I miss her,’ he said.

  ‘What does the future hold?’ I said. I wanted to move his thoughts away from the past.

  ‘A new life,’ he said. ‘Do you know where I am going?’ I shook my head. ‘I am going to Mozambique. Have you ever been there?’

  ‘No, but I’ve been to Tanzania.’

  ‘The language is Portuguese,’ Snowy said. ‘I am going to Maputo, the capital city. It is in the south. I will have a new identity, not Jack Frost.’ He smiled. ‘Why did you go to Tanzania?’

  ‘I was a soldier in the British army?’ I said.

  ‘What is it like in south-east Africa?’

  ‘I think Maputo is a good place for you to go. Do you know who chose it?’

  �
�British Intelligence is arranging everything. They told me the new chief said they were to make sure they looked after me. I am not sure what that means. He said I was an excellent spy and he was grateful for everything I had done. Do you know this man?’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘I don’t think I do.’

  Also by this author

  Bonfire preview

  Bonfire is the action-packed, thrilling story of an intelligence operation carried out in north Africa. The British SIS [SIS: secret intelligence service] send a four-man team of elite combat soldiers into Libya on a covert mission. Their target is a group of dangerous Islamic extremists. Hayes leads the four, but when the mission goes wrong, he faces an impossible decision. Will any of them get out alive?

  Here’s the first chapter:

  1 The future is not set, there is no fate but what we make for ourselves.

  THE EXECUTION WAS SET to take place at dawn. Viewed from the passenger seat of the Mercedes saloon, a hint of light rimmed the eastern horizon and foretold the inevitable future for the black and empty sky. We were travelling east across the city to witness a firing squad at work. The driver of the Mercedes saloon glanced at me for a second time. He wanted to talk. ‘Have you ever witnessed an execution before, Mr. Hayes?’ he asked. The man’s name was Chase, Benjamin Chase, and his appearance matched precisely his position with the Foreign Office in the diplomatic core as a military attaché especially his hair, which was wavy, but with just enough gel to keep it in check.

  A memory flashed into my mind, a memory I had not recalled for many years: It was the first time I had watched a man shot dead. The killing happened in Belfast when I was aged fifteen. Although the man was four years older than I was, he was slower at running, which was unlucky for him. From the sounds behind, I knew they had caught him. Out of sight in the deep shadows, I stopped and then looked back. Perhaps I should have tried to help him, but I just watched... in silence. There were four of them. They beat him with wooden clubs. He tried to fight back, but he was never going to win. The concrete was wet with rainwater and it splashed when he fell. I remember he bravely lifted his head. From behind, the man stepped forward and then raised the pistol using two straight arms. He held the gun close and still. Without a suppressor, the noise was loud, very loud. He fired only once.

  When a bullet enters a skull, two things always happen: the impact forces the head to move unnaturally, and the person drops. It is a sight not easily forgotten. You never forget your first time. Whoever said those words was right. People associate the remark with sex, but I can assure them it applies just as well to seeing a man shot dead. I pushed away the memory and looked at the illuminated dial on my wristwatch.

  ‘What time is sunrise?’ I said.

  ‘Sunrise,’ Benjamin Chase echoed. ‘All rather theatrical don’t you think? Although, I suppose, dawn is traditionally the time to carry out an execution.’ He leant forward and looked up through the windscreen. The eastern skyline had a pink blush like a teenage bride. ‘Officially, sunrise is four minutes past eight, but they’re bound to be late.’ He glanced at me again and when all I gave him in return was silence he said, ‘Is this your first trip to Libya?’

  ‘No, I was here a few years ago,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, were you, really, whereabouts?’ He sounded as if he was asking where I had stayed for an annual vacation.

  ‘Here and there,’ I said, ‘but mostly in the desert.’ He turned his head.

  ‘...the desert,’ he repeated. He wanted to ask me more but decided not to. Instead, he blasted the horn at a truck that had cut across him. ‘The standard of driving in Tripoli is awful,’ he said. There was a pause and then he said, ‘It’s not much further. Do you have your passport?’

  The security checkpoint consisted of a sentry box and a barrier. It was never going to trouble the one that was once infamous in Berlin. Benjamin Chase rolled the Mercedes to a stop and lowered the window. The elevated spotlights illuminated the iron gates inside the high wall. One of the spotlights glared on the windscreen and lit up the Mercedes like a pantomime dame.

  Unhurriedly, a uniformed guard approached and then leant in. Over his shoulder, he carried an assault rifle. It was a Russian-made AKM [AKM: Avtomat Kalashnikova Modernizirovanniy]. My view was not good enough to tell which particular version of the AK-47 upgrade it was. Chase spoke to him in Arabic and then passed him a folded piece of paper, which had appeared with the sleight of hand normally the preserve of street magicians. ‘Give me your passport,’ he said. I passed it to him with considerably less dexterity. He put it together with his own and then held them out for the guard to take.

  The proud owner of the AKM studied the letter and then the passports. He looked in at me without speaking. The peak of his cap shielded his eyes, so all I saw was a big nose jutting from the shadow. In Arabic, he gave instructions to Chase before he returned the letter and the passports. He turned away and then shouted to the guard in the sentry box who operated the barrier. Hi-tech it was not.

  The gates opened and Chase drove us through. We entered a large compound with buildings on two sides. The high wall extended beyond the gates and joined with the buildings to enclose the whole perimeter. Above the central structure was a small lookout tower with a stationed guard who controlled a spotlight and could see the surrounding area. When I saw him, I thought he looked an easy target for a sniper. The place reminded me of a concrete Wild West fort.

  Chase parked near to the main building alongside the other vehicles opposite the entrance. ‘The name of our contact is Wahbi Muntasser,’ he said. ‘He’s the man in charge here today.’

  Outside the Mercedes, the predawn air held a chill that was common after a clear night in January. Although Libya is an African country, Tripoli, the capital city, is on the northern coast. Where we stood was only a minute or two away from the Mediterranean Sea.

  Chase buttoned his jacket. ‘Do you think the still, cold air adds to the drama?’ he asked and then grinned. He was nervous.

  We walked over and he tried the door, but the guards inside had it locked. Using the inside of my fist, I banged hard. The sound was loud. It quickly brought a man who opened up. In Arabic, Chase explained who we were and asked to see Wahbi Muntasser. Despite only knowing a handful of Arabic words, it was easy for me to know what Chase was saying. What else would he be saying?

  Inside, we waited. There were plastic seats and an inbuilt wooden desk. Above our heads, the strip lighting gave out a disheartening yellow glow. Like all police stations, it had the lingering smell of fear.

  Wahbi Muntasser kept us waiting. When he arrived, his greeting was friendly. The broad smile and solid handshake were welcoming. I wondered whether he, too, was nervous.

  He spoke English. Although, at first his thick accent had me fooled until my ears became accustomed to his distinctive articulation and creative syntax. Unfortunately, subtitles were not available.

  We followed him into an office. He closed the door. ‘Sit, sit,’ he said. ‘Can I give you coffee?’ We both nodded. In Libya when offered tea or coffee it is considered impolite to refuse. Wahbi Muntasser poured the black liquid from a glass jug into white mugs and then handed them to us. ‘Nescafe,’ he said. The coffee was fresh and tasted good.

  ‘No other European country asks what you ask,’ our host said. Whether he considered this statement good or bad was impossible to tell. Chase and I waited. ‘You ask to see,’ he said and then smiled. It was good. Chase smiled back. ‘Perhaps you make sure we do it right,’ Muntasser said and then laughed. A laugh that came from his throat, but never touched his eyes. I drank some more of the first-rate coffee and looked at my wristwatch. ‘You agree he should die. Not all counties are the same. Some say we should send him home like a bad boy and say to him, “do not do it again”.’ Wahbi Muntasser made a disparaging sound with his tongue and frowned with annoyance at the thought of such a preposterous notion. He, also, looked at his wristwatch. ‘It is soon time,’ he said. ‘Come with me. Yes, b
ring your coffee.’ His English was improving rapidly, which made him easier to understand. As to whether that was a good thing I was undecided.

  We followed Muntasser along a sparse corridor to the east side of the building. An outside door led us onto a wooden veranda with a slatted canopy of woven reeds. The sky had lightened further and a line of flying geese showed black against the bleached horizon. ‘Sit, sit,’ he said and pointed at the table and chairs. ‘Drink you coffee and enjoy the sunrise. I will soon return.’

  Once Wahbi Muntasser had left us, Chase said, ‘I suppose we just sit and wait.’ His nervousness had worsened. We both sat. I drank the coffee and watched the flying geese. My companion fidgeted. The coffee inside his mug remained untouched. In respect of watching an execution or someone shooting a man dead, it seemed likely this was Benjamin Chase’s first time. I wondered why London had chosen him. He spoke Arabic and he was the man on the ground. They were the only two reasons I could think of.

  As the geese disappeared from view, the cloudless eastern sky lightened with “Canute” inevitability. Wahbi Muntasser returned. ‘We are ready,’ he said. ‘It is time.’ I checked my wristwatch. The time was four minutes past eight. Chase and I stood up and walked to the front of the veranda. The sun’s rim peeked above the eastern horizon. Muntasser stood ahead of us on the ground and we each watched as two guards brought out the condemned man. His name was Moha Hassan al-Barouni and he was aged just nineteen. He came from a city called Zawiya, situated on the coastline, only twenty-eight miles west of where we stood. The crime for which the Tripoli court had sentenced the nineteen-year-old Moha Hassan al-Barouni to death was “treason” or more precisely “armed resistance to the state”.

  His head was bare. Black, wavy hair contrasted against an ashen face. With his hands and feet bound, the two guards dragged his frightened, lean body to the wooden post beside the wall.

  Chase watched and shivered. ‘It’s cold,’ he said. The nineteen-year-old Moha Hassan wore a loose, thin white shirt. If anyone that morning had the right to shiver, it was Moha Hassan al-Barouni.