by Graham Ison
“I understand what you’re saying, Mr Gaffney.” Now it was Griffin’s turn to be patient. “But I would suggest that your simile of the burglary is not wholly apposite in this case. This is the Security Service; we are dealing with highly sensitive matters. I couldn’t possibly sanction having policemen running about all over the place—”
Gaffney interrupted. “If you’ll forgive me for saying so, Sir Edward, I think that is over-dramatizing it somewhat. I’m sure that you are perfectly aware that, by the nature of their duties, Special Branch officers are extremely discreet – and trustworthy. Ask any Cabinet minister who is protected by our officers, from the Prime Minister downwards, whether they think we are tactful. And our officers don’t make a habit of writing their memoirs.”
That was below the belt and it registered with Griffin. “I didn’t mean to impugn your people’s reliability, Mr Gaffney, but I am unhappy about releasing this enquiry totally, and having no say in how it’s to be conducted.”
“And that, Sir Edward, is precisely how I feel about it.”
Griffin sighed. He recognized an impasse when he saw one. “In that case, Mr Gaffney, I think that I shall have to consult your DAC again before we go any further.”
Gaffney sensed that the interview was over and rose to his feet. “As you wish, Sir Edward.”
*
With the natural caution of the senior intelligence officer, Sir Edward Griffin was guarded in what he said, even though he was speaking over the secure line which connected the headquarters of the Security Service to Special Branch. It had taken him some time to contact Logan, who had been diplomatically unavailable to the Director-General until Gaffney had returned and briefed him on what had taken place at the meeting.
It was an unsatisfactory conversation from Griffin’s standpoint; it was immediately apparent to him that Logan’s view had hardened since their initial meeting, and that the DAC was not going to give an inch. Furthermore, he derived little comfort from the policeman likening the situation to the siege of the Iranian Embassy some years previously. The allusion Logan had drawn was that when the police had asked the Special Air Service to storm the embassy for them, they had not then dictated how it was to be done.
Griffin suggested that they ask the Home Secretary to arbitrate, but Logan refused on the grounds that it was a matter of operational policing, and had nothing to do with the police authority, the role fulfilled by the Secretary of State in relation to the Metropolitan Police.
Logan had made it clear that he would accept the assignment on his terms or not at all; and that wras something that he was prepared to refer to the Home Secretary. Although that had put Griffin in an invidious position, it was not an acrimonious exchange; more a discussion between two professionals, each of whom put his own view, albeit forcefully. Eventually Griffin agreed; in all conscience he had little option.
*
“Do it your way, John,” said the DAC. “And now we’ve got that far, perhaps you’d tell me what your way is.”
Gaffney had given a great deal of thought to his task. The fact that the same team of intelligence officers had been used to investigate the activities of Nikitin and Gesschner, the two agents who had escaped almost at the very point of apprehension, did not necessarily mean that the leak – if there was one – would be found among the members of that team. If MI5 was like any other large organization – certainly the police and Customs and Excise, in Gaffney’s experience – it was very difficult indeed to keep anything secret. There would be quite a few other people, apart from the team, who would have legitimate access to details of an operation; that’s where Gaffney’s job was going to develop its complexities. There would undoubtedly be an element of hostility, too, and if that hostility bred obstruction or want of co-operation, a result was going to be even harder to achieve. But there were ways.
Logan listened carefully to Gaffney’s plan, nodding from time to time, and once or twice pursing his lips. “All right,” he said finally, “but I want you to talk this through with Frank Hussey; his experience is valuable. And don’t forget what I said: everything is to be logged, carefully; if anything goes wrong, I don’t want any blame attributed to this branch. Understood?”
*
The slight, gray-haired man who stood up and shook Gaffney’s hand firmly, did not look like the Provost-Marshal of the British Army, but Gaffney had long ago learned just how deceptive appearances could be.
The suggestion of a frown settled on Brigadier Parker’s face. “We have met somewhere before, have we not, Mr Gaffney?”
“Yes, Brigadier. When you were APM London District. You invited me into your office for a drink after a Trooping. About five or six years ago; perhaps longer?”
“Longer. I left London District eight years ago. Time flies, doesn’t it? Now sit down and tell me how I can help you.”
“Put simply, I want to borrow an army officer.”
The brigadier smiled. “Any particular size?”
Gaffney smiled too. “I’ll have to let you be the judge of that. If I outline the specifications, so to speak, then you can advise me. I want an officer who is engaged in sensitive work – something that would be of value to the Russians – ideally one who is single, or divorced, who can drink, but hold his drink, and preferably in debt. In short, a drunken, impecunious womanizer,” said Gaffney.
“Yes,” said the brigadier after a pause. “Well that covers about half the British Army.”
Gaffney laughed. “I can see that military policemen are about as cynical as civil ones.”
“What d’you want him for?”
“Bait.” Gaffney went on to explain the delicate operation with which he had been tasked.
Parker listened in silence, a silence which continued for some time after Gaffney had finished. Eventually he said; “You’re not asking for much. Why did you pick on the army?”
“Discipline,” said Gaffney, simply. “And because I don’t understand the navy, and the air force are a bit new.” He smiled.
“Huh! And I suppose that you’re going to tell me that I can’t consult the Chief of the General Staff – or anyone else for that matter, because it’s all so damned sensitive?”
“Exactly so, Brigadier.”
Parker moved his chair slightly and gazed briefly out of the window. “Very well.” he said, turning to face Gaffney again. “I’ll see what I can do, but I make no promises. There is one other thing, of course. This officer, if I can provide one, will need to be fully protected. I don’t want any officer finishing up in the dock at the Old Bailey when all he has done is to assist the state.”
“Of course not. It’s my intention that he would be comprehensively briefed, and that everything he does to assist us is fully documented – in advance. The instructions would be signed by him and by me, and then kept in safe custody at Scotland Yard.”
Parker nodded. “I have to admit, Mr Gaffney, that I’m not very happy about the proposal, but I can understand your difficulty. It would be unwise to use a civil servant for an exercize of this sort. All right. I’ll do what I can, but I am making no promises; and I don’t propose to rush it, however urgent you may regard the problem.”
Gaffney nodded his agreement. “I quite understand that. It’s a matter that needs to be resolved as soon as possible, but I don’t intend to rush it either – that would be foolish. We’ve got to get it absolutely right.” He paused at the door of the Provost-Marshal’s office. “At the risk of insulting you, Brigadier, may I ask that this conversation be kept just between the two of us.”
Parker smiled and nodded. Gaffney knew that it would remain confidential, but the brigadier knew also that Gaffney had to say what he had just said.
*
The four officers stood up as Gaffney entered. “Sit down,” he said. He had deliberately picked a room outside the Special Branch complex, some seven floors below it, in fact. There was just the chance that a member of the Security Service on a routine visit to SB would have caug
ht sight of them, and remembered their faces.
Each of them had spent the last twenty-four hours wondering why they had suddenly been warned to report to Scotland Yard at ten o’clock the following morning. It is in the nature of police business that they had been apprehensive, wondering what on earth they had done wrong. Their dilemma was not helped by the fact that, in each case, it had been their own chief superintendent who had given them the instructions personally, and advised them to tell no one else. Gaffney had emphasised to the divisional commanders that they should not tell the four who had sent for them; he knew the damage that wagging tongues could do in a police canteen.
Slowly, Gaffney gazed at them. “You’re probably wondering why you’ve been called up here,” he said. They nodded. “I have decided to accept each of you into Special Branch, among others.” He paused to allow that bit of good news to sink in. “But I have also selected you for a particular job.” The four looked pleased. “And in case you think it’s because you’ve got special talents, or are outstandingly brilliant, forget it. I’ve picked you because you’re so bloody ordinary, and because your faces are not known to the people in whom we’re taking an interest. As of now, you are detective constables for duty in Special Branch. But don’t let that go to your heads. The job, as far as you are concerned, is extremely mundane. It will be boring, and will probably shatter all your illusions about Special Branch. By the time it’s finished, you’ll be sick of it, wondering why you ever volunteered.” He frowned at them. “It certainly doesn’t mean that you’re budding James Bonds. Such people don’t exist, and if any one of you steps out of line you’ll be back in uniform so fast that you’ll forget you’ve ever been here. Understood?”
There was a muted chorus of acknowledgment; they were beginning to wonder what they were getting into. “May we ask what this job is, sir?” ventured one of them, an intense and slightly balding young man called Paul Bishop.
“No, you may not,” said Gaffney, “Because you’re not going to be told. Then you can’t tell anyone else.” He smiled at them. “For a start, you will be going on a crash course in surveillance techniques – from tomorrow morning. You will be under the supervision of a very skilled detective sergeant. He will be entirely responsible for you, and you will do everything he tells you without question. Under no circumstances will you set foot in this building again, or any other police premises for that matter, until I tell you—” He broke off as Marilyn Lester half raised her hand. “Yes?”
“I live in a section house, sir.”
“Then you’ll move. Get a flat.” She looked concerned. “Don’t worry,” he said, “We’ll arrange it for you. What about you others? If I remember correctly, you’re all married and live in your own places – yes?” They nodded. “Bloody lucky,” said Gaffney. “When I got married, I was stuck in police quarters for three years before we got somewhere of our own.” He’d still got somewhere of his own, but his wife had left him a year or two previously to set up home with a resting actor. “Do not forget,” he continued, “that you are detective constables on probation. One slip and out you go, and there’s no appeal. Right, any questions?”
“How long is this job going to last, sir?” asked Cane.
“No idea. As long as it takes. It could be months – might even be a year, but I hope not.” He looked around. No one else said anything. “Right, I’m now going to give you the address of a house in West London. You will go there at half-hour intervals, not in a bunch; sort it out among yourselves. Okay, off you go.” The new detectives stood up and made towards the door. “Miss Lester.”
“Yes, sir.” The girl turned. She was wearing again the blue suit and flat shoes she had worn on the day of the interview, and her hair was still drawn back into a severe bun.
“You look like a bloody policewoman,” said Gaffney. “For God’s sake get something that looks a bit feminine. We like our girls to look like girls; and incidentally, there’s no law against smiling up here. Got it?”
For the first time, she smiled. “Got it, sir.” Perhaps they weren’t such a bad lot after all. And perhaps he wasn’t such a self-opinionated bastard.
*
“His name’s Armitage, sir – James Armitage, known as Jack.”
“Is he what you’re looking for?” Frank Hussey lowered his heavy frame into his chair and linked his fingers loosely on the blotter in front of him.
“Remains to be seen, sir,” said Gaffney. “I’ve looked at his army records, but I want to do a bit of background digging of my own.”
“How long’s that going to take you?” asked the commander. “Not long – week or two at most, I should think, but he looks all right on what I’ve got.”
“Which is?”
“He’s thirty-five, a major in the Royal Signals due for promotion to lieutenant-colonel very shortly.”
Commander Hussey laughed. “If you don’t succeed in cocking up his career for him.”
“Please don’t make jokes like that, sir. He’s divorced – about three years ago. He likes a drink, can hold it, and can stop any time he feels like it.”
“What were the circumstances of the divorce, John?”
“Incompatibility. He’d been married for about ten years. He was stationed in Singapore as a subaltern, and married a local girl – against everyone’s advice apparently. They were proved to be right. It dragged on for a few years, then she went home to mum – couldn’t stand Catterick it seems.”
“Know how she feels,” murmured Hussey. “And since?”
“The divorce was a formality – all done by post, and set in motion by him. He was keen on some girl, even thought he might marry her but it fell through by the time the absolute came through. Since then he’s had a few girlfriends, but nothing lasting.”
“Why’s that – not queer or anything, is he?”
“No. I gather that he suddenly liked the idea of being a free agent.” This time it was Gaffney who knew how he felt. After the initial shock of Vanessa walking out on him, he had to admit that he quite enjoyed his single state.
“Right, John – you’d better get on with it. But keep me fully informed. Every step.”
*
The rent of the self-contained flat in Battersea that Gaffney had taken was prohibitive. That in itself didn’t concern him because the Security Service would eventually foot the bill, but as a part of the fiction he was creating, it might have appeared beyond the means of Armitage, the army officer he was intending to install in it. His fears had been allayed, however, by Brigadier Parker, the Provost-Marshal, who had told him that it was not unusual for the army to provide such hirings for its officers.
It contained, in Gaffney’s view, only the basic essentials. Apart from the two bedrooms on which he had insisted, it could only boast a small living room – with dining area – a kitchen and a bathroom. Gaffney just hoped that his proposed occupants would get on together; if they didn’t, there wasn’t much room for a fight.
He levered himself out of the armchair as the doorbell rang, and walked quickly to the front door.
“Name’s Armitage.”
“I’m Gaffney, Detective Chief Superintendent John Gaffney, come in.”
Major Armitage was about an inch under six feet tall and looked fit, as though he had played just enough sport in his earlier years but had known when to stop. His dark hair was a bit longer than Gaffney would have expected in a soldier, and he wore a plain blue suit that could have done with a pressing. “I suppose you want to see this.” Armitage held out his military identity card, but instead of looking at the policeman, allowed his gaze to run around the room, assessing. “Nice little place you’ve got here. Costs you a few bob, I should think.”
“Not me – the firm,” said Gaffney, perusing the ID card and returning it. He was pleased that Armitage liked the flat.
“D’you mind if I see yours?”
“Not at all.” Gaffney handed his warrant card over for inspection.
“Name’s Jack,”
said Armitage, extending a hand and grasping Gaffney’s in a firm grip. “This is all a bit cloak-and-daggerish, I must say.”
Gaffney gestured towards an armchair, and the two men sat down. “You been told anything about this?”
“Not a word,” said Armitage. “Got sent for by the Provost-Marshal, no less, this morning, and told to get round here this afternoon. Been trying to work out what the hell I’d done wrong. Not every day you get hiked out of your office and told to meet a senior detective at some flat in Battersea.”
Gaffney had spent some time working out how he was going to put his proposition to Armitage, and was still apprehensive about the right approach. “I’m attached to Special Branch,” he said, having decided to play openly with this man whom he was about to ask to risk at least his career.
Armitage nodded. “Thought you might be. But I haven’t been selling secrets to the Russians.”
“I know that; at least, as sure as I can be.” Gaffney smiled. He was pleased that Armitage had said that. “But I’d like you to give the impression that you’d be willing to.”
“So that’s it.” Armitage took a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket, and offered one to Gaffney.
“No thanks. I smoke the occasional cigar, but you carry on.”
“What d’you want me to do, then?” Armitage blew smoke towards the ceiling.
“To be the hare, quite simply. D’you think you might be willing to take it on?”
Armitage grinned. “Depends what’s involved.”
“Well it could ruin your social life for a start.”
“Come off it. I haven’t got a social life – at least not at the moment. And you know that anyway, don’t you? You’ll have done a hell of a lot of background work on me before we got to this point.”