Pay Any Price

by Ted Allbeury

  “Are your responsibilities connected with what I can only refer to as operations outside normal CIA operations?”

  Grabowski shrugged. “We might as well say it as it is. Yes. My responsibilities are with operations that the top echelons of CIA could never officially approve but are necessary when the chips are on the table. And in some cases the top echelons don’t even know what my people are doing.”

  “Would you be personally sacrificed if any of it came to light?”

  “You betcha. A lot of heads would roll, but mine would roll first. And in this particular case I’d end up in jail. No doubt about that. And I guess I’d be there to the end of my days.”

  “OK, Mr. Grabowski. We can talk. My responsibilities are much the same as yours. In other words, I and my people do the dirty work that wouldn’t be admitted to by my chiefs. And sometimes I don’t even ask first, I just get on with it, because, for better or worse, I think it has to be done.

  “Which brings me to the point of my visit. I want to use the services of your two chaps up north for a few months.”

  “How many months?”

  “At least six, maybe a year.”

  “You’d give them protection and cover in that time?”

  Carter nodded. “Better than they’ve had so far.”

  “Are you prepared to discuss what you’ll use them for?”

  “Sure. You’ve already got a British subject … a girl … under control. I want to use her in Northern Ireland against the IRA. And I want them to find me a man … a soldier … who I can use in Germany.”

  “What happens to the documents you picked up?”

  “I’ll hand them back to you when we’re finished.” He half-smiled. “One original and two copies. All in safe hands.”

  “Tell me about Deeming. How did you get on to him?”

  “He was screwing the wife of a local man who found out and beat him up. Your boy was shooting a James Bond line with her to get her into bed, and she talked to a girl-friend who told her boy-friend, a local policeman. We were just doing a routine surveillance.”

  “Why wasn’t the husband prosecuted?”

  “Nobody knew what had happened except the wife and her husband … and us of course … so nobody had any interest in letting it blow up. I’d guess the husband didn’t intend to kill him, just beat the hell out of him and went too far.”

  “When do you want my guys to start?”

  “Soon as you can fix it.”

  “They call me Ziggy. What do they call you?”

  “My name’s Tom but they call me Nick. I hate it, but I’m stuck with it.”

  “Let me use your phone here and I’ll get us both plane seats for tomorrow. I’ll fly back with you. Unless you’ve got anything else to do in Washington.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll give you my ticket details.”

  10

  It was in mid-March 1969 that the car drew up outside the house and Symons walked out to see who it was. It was Grabowski looking strangely respectable in a neat blue suit and a Hardy Amies tie, with black brogues and a white shirt.

  Grabowski barely touched Symons’s offered hand, sweeping past him into the house as if he not only owned it but knew his way around it. Inside the big beamed hall he stood waiting impatiently for Symons to close the outer door.

  “Where’s your friend?”

  “He’s upstairs, typing.”

  “Have you got a secure room where we can talk?”

  “Yes. Our workroom where Pete’s working.”

  Petersen was typing on a portable on the table and he didn’t look up as Grabowski walked into the room. Symons coughed a warning and as Petersen looked up from his typing he stared at Grabowski with disbelief. “Jesus God … angels and ministers of grace defend us, be thou a spirit of health or goblin damned etcetera, etcetera. What have we done to deserve this?”

  Grabowski ignored the comment and Petersen, and glanced around the sparsely furnished room, picked the only comfortable chair, pulled it towards him and sat down, his briefcase beside him.

  “I’ve got mail for both of you. I’ll give it to you later, after we’ve talked.”

  Petersen grinned. “You been steamin’ it open, Grab?”

  Grabowski wasn’t amused but he shuffled his backside more comfortably into the chair.

  “I’ve got work for you two. Langley thinks it’s time you started earning your corn.”

  Neither of them responded and he turned to look at Symons.

  “You had a girl … a singer … she was used by you for MKULTRA. Remember?”

  Symons nodded but said nothing.

  “You’re gonna use her again.”

  “She’s not a United States national and she doesn’t live in the States.”

  “I know all that. She lives in London. You and Mortensen were using her as a courier just before you came over here. Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “We want to use her again.”

  “What for?”

  “Same again. As a stake-out and as a courier.”

  “Is this for Bill Mortensen again?”

  “No. We’ve got ourselves a problem. She’s the solution. Or part of it.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “The Brits. SIS know you’re over here. They want to know why.”

  “You didn’t tell them, for God’s sake?”

  “Of course we didn’t. But the guy who spotted you knows what your speciality is and he wants a piece of the action.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “He wants to use you. Both of you. And if we play ball then he plays ball and says nothing. If not he’ll tell the brass at Century House.”

  “He’ll probably tell them anyway.”

  “That wouldn’t matter. They’ve no idea why you’re here, and they’d never put it together. They’d just raise hell that we’ve got two CIA men in this country who they don’t know about.”

  “Who’s this SIS guy?”

  “Maclaren. He’s bringing in another fellow. Sturgiss.”

  “Have you checked on them?”

  “You betcha. I’ll give you a summary that you can keep. Maclaren’s an old hand. A dirty-tricks man. I’d say he’s pretty good at it. Very rough. Sturgiss is in his thirties. Another rough boy. Not as experienced as Maclaren but a real bastard.” Grabowski tapped the side of his head. “I’d put him down as a psycho. But I leave that sort of thing to you boys.”

  Symons said, “When do we go back Stateside?”

  Grabowski bent his arm and scratched slowly at the back of his neck and both Symons and Petersen wondered if it was a diversionary gesture or a genuine itch.

  “A month or two.”

  “That girl’s going to come apart if there’s too much pressure. The screws were coming loose last time we used her.”

  “Then what happens?”

  “She goes in the bin.”

  “Would she talk?”

  “No. She doesn’t know anything. It’s wiped each time so there’s nothing for her to tell. If I told her when she’s normal what she’s done under hypnosis she wouldn’t believe me. For her it’s never happened. She could only talk under hypnosis. And you’d need the code which she only knows at another level. And there are safety controls I can build in if she’s operating for the Brits.”

  “Like what?”

  “It’s better you don’t know, Grab.”

  Grabowski shrugged. “Maclaren and Sturgiss are coming up tomorrow to brief you on how they want to use her. I’ll stay until it’s all settled.”

  Grabowski seemed to know both Maclaren and Sturgiss quite well. He introduced them with no more background than to say they were SIS and highly respected by CIA HQ at Langley.

  Maclaren was tall and gangling with a raw, red face that was all bumps and cavities and looked as if it had been scrubbed over-enthusiastically. Sturgiss was small and sinewy, and although he was the younger of the two his red hair was sparse like a halo round his freckled bald hea
d. He looked like one of those champion jockeys with a young man’s lean body and an old man’s creased face and stony eyes.

  The two Americans recognized them at once as typical of the kind of thugs that most intelligence organizations keep in their closets for special operations where ruthlessness is the main characteristic needed. Even Grabowski, for all his attempted bonhomie, didn’t look entirely at home with the two Britishers. Finally Grabowski gave up on the broken-backed pleasantries and suggested that they sit around the table.

  “Our friends here have asked if we could assist them, and Langley have agreed. It’s more consultation than assistance but …” Grabowski shrugged his shoulders and waved a hand dismissively “… on the other hand we’re aware that there has to be some actual participation. So it’s … let’s say … a wide brief.” He turned to Maclaren. “You give an outline of what you want, Mac.”

  The Scot raised his eyebrows as if more was being asked of him than he could be expected to deliver.

  “We heard you’ve got one of your zombies here we could use.”

  The two Americans didn’t respond and Grabowski leaped into his role of honest broker.

  “These guys have been shown the routine records so they’ve got the basic background. We haven’t discussed what use we might or might not have made of your existing client but they know the … what do you call it … the potential.”

  It was Symons who answered. “She wouldn’t respond to anyone but me. That was the whole point of the programme.”

  Grabowski nodded. “I know that. They want you to operate her for us just like you did over the other side.”

  Symons reached in his pocket for his cigarettes, lit one slowly, and only after he exhaled did he turn to look at Grabowski.

  “I told you, Ziggy, she’s going to come apart at the seams if she’s put under pressure for too long.”

  Maclaren interrupted as Grabowski leaned forward to reply.

  “We need her right now, Symons. So let’s cut out the bullshit. Either you can do it or you can’t. Which is it?”

  Symons deliberately avoided looking at Maclaren, as if he had no significance.

  “What kind of mission did you have in mind, Ziggy?”

  “They … we want to use her in Northern Ireland against the IRA.”

  “To do what?”

  Grabowski nodded to Maclaren who could barely keep the anger from his voice.

  “To wipe out certain IRA men. And one or two other bad friends.”

  Symons raised his eyebrows. “Can’t you just shoot them?”

  “If that was the answer we’d have done it, sunshine. There are a lot of reasons why we need to do it this way.”

  “Don’t call me sunshine, mister. I’m not impressed. What are the reasons?”

  “That’s our business not yours.”

  Symons nodded, and for a moment Maclaren thought it was in agreement, until Symons spoke.

  “In that case, Mr. Maclaren, I suggest you get yourself back to London and get on with it.”

  There were flecks of saliva on Maclaren’s lips as the words burst out. He meant to wag his finger to emphasize his words but it ended up as a shaking fist.

  “You stupid bastard. We can put you in the nick inside an hour on what we know about you. We can finish the bloody CIA for good and we can …”

  “Maclaren!” Grabowski’s voice was loud and angry. “Cool it, Maclaren, or I’ll phone Nick Carter right now and get him to fly up. You’re not here to give orders or to lay down the law. If anyone’s going to do that it’s me. That’s the arrangement Carter and I have made. If you want cooperation you’d better calm down right now.”

  Maclaren shrugged and leaned back in his chair, his eyes hard with anger.

  “You tell them, then. You know the scenario.”

  Grabowski stood up. “Let’s have a drink and leave the planning for tomorrow.” He looked at Petersen. “You got some liquor stashed away someplace, Pete?”

  They had a few drinks and at least the surface antagonism faded, but the tensions were all too obviously still there when the two SIS men opted for bed and Petersen showed them to their rooms. When he came back to their workroom the three Americans sat in silence for several minutes before Grabowski started mending the fences.

  “Why did you provoke him, Tony? It was deliberate. I watched you doing it. It’s crazy.”

  Symons lit another cigarette. “I tell you what, Ziggy. That sonofabitch is dangerous. He’s a psychopath. Straight out of a text-book. So’s his little red-haired pal, sitting there all silent, clenching his fists and grinding his jaws. Where the hell did you find them?”

  “I didn’t. They found you. They were carrying out the surveillance of Deeming’s house and they found the files on you two. Nick Carter, their boss, gave me the option. We cooperate or they blow you two and the whole CIA sky high.”

  Symons shrugged. “So get some of our guys over to knock ’em off.”

  Grabowski sighed, his hand cupping his chin as he slowly shook his head. “Sometimes you guys make me feel very old.” He was a shrewd operator and he knew he had won when Symons laughed softly.

  “Have they told you what they want us to do?”

  “Not in detail. And I don’t want to know.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’ve got enough trouble trying to keep the lid on what happened back home. More, I don’t need.”

  “Who’s making trouble there?”

  “Congressional committeemen, judges, half a dozen independent committees, the media, you name it. It’s the most popular bloodsport Washington ever had … and you don’t even need to go out in the rain. Fifty assassination theories, and every one a winner.”

  Petersen stretched out his long legs. “Tell us what the two Brits want us to do.”

  “There are two key IRA leaders … one in Belfast and the other in Dublin. They want to use the girl to eliminate them both.”

  “Why don’t they shoot them themselves?”

  “There’s several reasons. The most important is that Dublin and London have been talking for months to try and solve their problems in Northern Ireland. It’s an almost impossible task anyway. An Irish Prime Minister who spoke out for Northern Ireland deciding its own destiny would have his arse out in the snow in a matter of hours. And a British Prime Minister who even vaguely hinted that there might be some good in a united Ireland would be starting a civil war.

  “When the two prime ministers met last year they looked at the whole bag of tricks all over again and reckoned there was only one way out … to make Northern Ireland an independent state with its independence guaranteed by both Dublin and London.”

  Symons yawned. “How would that help … the Irish would still want a united Ireland and the people in the north wouldn’t have it in a million years. I don’t see what difference it makes.”

  “That’s why you’re not on Capitol Hill, buddy. The difference is that London would be out of it. The Irish hate the Brits and they enjoy hating them. It’s their national sport. The idea of negotiating with the Brits about anything is a signal for raking up all the old hatreds. And the Northern Ireland lot detest London almost as much. So it would change the sides of the triangle. It would be independent Irishmen negotiating with independent Irishmen. Given time they could work something out.”

  “So why the wet-jobs on the IRA men?”

  “Dublin and London feel that with those two out of the way they could get maybe two, three months without murders so that when the Independent Northern Ireland Bill comes up in the House of Commons and the Dail it could stand a sporting chance of being discussed. There could be one more job to do, on one of the so-called Loyalist leaders, but they’ll decide that when the first two targets have been hit.”

  “So again, Ziggy, why don’t they just shoot those two?”

  “So that London, and the Army, or even the Loyalists, can’t be accused. The two IRA men are diehard guerrillas; as much against Dublin as London. It would ta
ke months for the IRA to mount a real campaign with them out of the way.”

  Petersen sat with his head back, turning it slightly to look at Grabowski.

  “You know … the Irish are always supposed to be able to charm the birds off the trees … why for God’s sake do they murder and cripple people instead of trying the charm?”

  Grabowski shrugged. “Maybe like you just said … they do it for God’s sake. For the Belfast Irish, God’s a Brit and the Pope’s the whore of Rome. For the southern Irish they don’t spend much time worrying about God. They’ve got priests and their fellow in the Vatican to worry about God for them.”

  Symons stood up, stretching carefully. “When do they want to start?”

  “Soon as you can make it.”

  “Maybe you can get your pal Carter to make clear that we’re in charge of controlling the girl. It’s medical and scientific not bang-bang stuff.”

  “I’ll talk to him on the phone tomorrow before we get started.”

  Donald Hardie Maclaren folded his clothes carefully and neatly, arranging them on the two chairs as if for a kit inspection. For a few minutes he stood at the uncurtained window. There was no light from a house or a building as far as he could see. Just a faint glow on the horizon that could be from the sea or the moonlight on the far-away hills. Beyond those hills was the Scottish border and across the Forth was Methil, the small town where he was born. His father and mother would be fast asleep in their separate beds in their separate rooms.

  His father’s family had owned the chemist’s shop at the turn of the century, several Maclarens had been town councillors, and at least two had been magistrates. His father was a magistrate. He could remember being taken to the court to see his father handing out justice and advice to the grey figures in the dock. His father was much respected by the townspeople. Hard on offenders of course, but that was what the law was all about, and what they deserved.

  His mother was on a dozen committees and was liked even more than his father. She was known for her good works and energy.

  Maclaren had hated them both for most of his life. Certainly all his life that he could remember. He could still feel anger at 6.15 any evening. The time when his father came home from the shop. The time when the day with his mother was cut short and he no longer mattered. Lying upstairs in his bed, hearing their low voices and sometimes his mother’s laugh, he had sweated with rage and frustration. Twice he had run away from home. The first time, when he was six and a half, the town had turned out to search for him. They had found him in the hut on the golf links. The second time was a year later, and he had gone down to the docks and the dock police had taken him home. He had heard his father tell the policeman that it was just an attention-getting expedition, and he had decided then and there to kill his father when he was big enough and old enough. He still thought about it sometimes.