Pay Any Price

by Ted Allbeury

  They flew him to Newcastle where a small white Cherokee with RAF roundels was waiting to fly him to Northolt. Three hours later he was at the safe-house in Ebury Street waiting for the DUS. As he waited in the comfortable room he wondered how Parkinson would react to his news. Normally he would have had a pretty good idea of his senior’s reaction but this time it was different. He wasn’t even sure of his own reactions. But Parkinson was rated a “sound man.” Well used to being the interface between SIS and the PM, he could absorb a good briefing competently and quickly, and could generally get the decision his service wanted provided he was convinced that they were right. Of medium height but stockily built he was known as ‘Flycatcher’ by the irreverent, owing to his habit of listening intently with his mouth wide open. The humorists said it was to disguise his yawns, the more down-to-earth diagnosed sinus trouble, but the fact was that it was a purely personal idiosyncrasy that he had derived from his father.

  Then Cartwright heard the slam of a taxi door, and moments later the muffled voice of the retired policeman who supervised the safe-house. Parkinson patted his chest as he arrived breathless at the top of the steep, narrow stairs.

  “I told him we’d like some coffee, but later. Well … and what have you been up to?”

  “It’s quite a long story, sir.”

  Parkinson smiled. “They always are by the time they get to me. Let’s make ourselves comfortable.”

  Making himself comfortable for the civil servant meant no more than undoing the two bottom buttons on his waistcoat before he leaned back in the armchair.

  It took less time to tell his tale than he had expected and Cartwright had said his piece inside fifteen minutes.

  “Have you discussed this with anyone else as yet?”

  “No sir. Obviously Carter knows part of the story, but he hasn’t kept me informed. He won’t know the latest developments.”

  “You never know, Ken. You never know. I’ve not heard anything but I don’t fraternize with Nick Carter unless I have to.” He paused and smiled. “For his sake as well as mine. What the eye don’t see the heart don’t grieve about, eh?”

  “I think the issues are clear, sir. Even if the decision is less so.”

  “Do you now? Tell me the issues.”

  “We either cooperate with Langley or we don’t. We send them back discreetly and gift-wrapped, and leave Langley to decide their fate. Or we raise absolute hell at all levels. Their embassy here. Ours in Washington. CIA liaison. Even the White House direct. Eventually we agree to return them but only in return for something good we really want. Reluctant conspirators.”

  “And which do you favour?”

  “The discreet return.”

  “Why that?”

  “The sooner we wash our hands of all of it the better. We don’t need to make a song and dance about it. It’s not an occasion for pointing fingers. They don’t like this kind of operation any more than we do.” He paused and shrugged. “But we both cross the line when it suits us, and we need to. Mind you … without any attempt at being holier than thou I’m surprised that Carter has gone to these lengths. It’s not our kind of game.”

  Parkinson smiled faintly. “Chaps like Carter can’t resist a new toy you know. He gets his blackmail material on the CIA and instinctively he wonders how much it’s worth. It never enters his mind that maybe you could get more out of it by doing nothing. So he borrows their new toy. Forgetting the ethics and all that, the way he’s used it is merely adding another hazard to his operation. His old-fashioned thugs could have done it in half the time and with none of all this shambles for us to sweep up. And what about your chap Boyd? He’s another complication.”

  “I think in fact he’s our only problem. Or my only problem. It always annoys me intensely when one of our own people gets on his high horse and pontificates. I sympathize with his views—most of us would. But if you’re in the service it’s self-indulgent. We’re in a game that officially doesn’t even exist. Almost everything we do is open to criticism from some source. If we tap the phone of some Irish thug preparing bombs in a semi in Willesden we are infringing the liberty of the individual. But when he kills seven innocent people we get kicked for not knowing what’s going on.

  “But I got over being indignant about that sort of thing in my first year of service. We have to make our own rules and standards. When somebody goes too far they get the chop or demotion. Carter’s gone too far in my opinion. But who decides how far too far is? Not me, thank God. And certainly not Boyd.”

  Parkinson nodded and his smooth fingers touched his grey silk tie. “Carter’s been extremely naïve in this matter. We give him a lot of rope but the understanding has always been that the outcome has to be worth the moral black-out. This little circus isn’t worth any risk at all. Do you think you can talk Boyd out of his indignation?”

  “I’m not at all sure that I can. I think in some queer way he’s identifying this girl with his wife. They’re much of an age. Both very pretty. He sees it as happening to her.”

  “Sounds a good solid citizen.” Parkinson turned his head very slightly so that he could watch Cartwright’s response from the corner of his eye.

  “The only solid citizens we can afford in SIS are those we stick behind desks. Shuffling papers and scribbling notes for their monograph on Mediaeval Guilds in East Anglia. Field officers should be committed.”

  Parkinson smiled. “Now steady on. I can remember you complaining about the kind of chap we were recruiting some years ago. And you said we shouldn’t be taking on chaps who were eager to do the job. We should be looking for the reluctant virgins who had doubts. Your own words, Ken. You quoted Philby as the example of the committed man. You’ve said to me a number of times that you valued your music because it kept you at arm’s length from being the dedicated SIS man always wearing blinkers. Yes?”

  “I’m afraid so. I suppose that’s why I was so hot under the collar about Boyd. He reflects my own views too closely for comfort. The only difference is that I’ve been in the racket enough years to make me tend towards the long view.”

  “Would you like me to put someone else on to dealing with Boyd?”

  Cartwright looked surprised as he turned towards Parkinson. “What made you suggest that, sir?”

  “Because the obvious solution is one you won’t like,” Parkinson said very quietly.

  Cartwright didn’t reply and Parkinson stood up. “I’ll have to miss out on the coffee. Got a meeting before lunch. Keep me in touch.”

  Parkinson’s meeting was in his own office, and his secretary pointed towards his room and nodded as he walked through to where the black Gothic script said “M. F. Parkinson MBE Deputy Under Sec.”

  Carter was already waiting for him, and Parkinson nodded to him as he walked round to sit at his desk. As he sat down he looked across to Carter.

  “I got your message. How long will it take to move her?”

  “I’ll need a Home Office transfer authorization and some pressure on the two doctors. And I’ll need to make arrangements for her at another hospital. That will take some time. Medical people can’t stomach being told what to do by their inferiors.”

  “See Penny about the transfer authorization and you should have it back from the Home Secretary’s office within the hour. Hire an ambulance and take her to one of the safe-houses. The one at Petersfield’s available. Get Facilities to lay on one of our own nurses. Don’t stand any nonsense from the two doctors and make them sign the Official Secrets Act form. Point your finger at Section Two.”

  Carter stood up to leave but Parkinson waved him back to the chair.

  “I gave you the benefit of the doubt when I agreed to let you go ahead with these two Americans. You’ll recall, I hope, that I pointed out to you that the prize wasn’t enough for the risk. You remember?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Was I right?”

  “Yes, sir, but we’ve had practical experience of a new weapon, a new method.”

&nb
sp; “Rubbish. The two Americans may have, but you haven’t. You couldn’t repeat it without them. You’ve no more learnt how to do it than watching Menuhin play the fiddle on TV teaches you how to play the violin.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “We’ve got a complication now.”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “Cartwright’s chap Boyd broke into the house and took off with Symons. Boyd wants to expose the whole thing. The naughty CIA and their collaborators in SIS. Abuse of the minds of innocent victims. It would make Watergate look like the vicar’s tea party.”

  “What’s Cartwright going to do?”

  “That’s what worries me. I think he’ll make the right decision in the end. But if he’s backed into a corner Boyd’s only got to get to a telephone and call Reuters and the balloon goes up.” Parkinson pushed a trayful of files to one side. A symbolic clearing of the decks before he looked across again at Carter. “You’d better provide some insurance, Carter. Or we’ll all be writing our memoirs in the Tower.”

  “Do we know where Boyd has taken Symons, sir?”

  “No. You’d better get your people up there doing their bloodhound act. You get my meaning I hope.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll deal with it.”

  Parkinson nodded brusquely as he reached for the internal telephone.

  23

  Maclaren drove the XJS with Sturgiss in the passenger seat and Carter stretched out asleep at the back.

  Cartwright had flown up on a scheduled flight to Newcastle where there was a message for him at the airport to phone London. Signals Security had monitored several coded calls addressed to him from Boyd, on one of the SIS operational channels. Cartwright phoned the Special Branch senior at Newcastle and asked for a transceiver to be sent across to him.

  He hired a car at the airport and as soon as the radio had been delivered he headed up the A1 for Beadnell. He booked into the hotel and then walked to the empty beach. In a hollow in the dunes he extended the aerial and turned the switch to Channel Five, the frequency Boyd had been using, and pressed the transmit button. Slowly and carefully he said, “Everest calling Snowdon … Everest calling Snowdon … are you receiving?” He turned over to receive and waited, but there was no reply. He called twice again and then looked at his watch. It was only three o’clock but he seemed to have been on the move for weeks.

  The tide was ebbing and the white sand glistened in the afternoon sun, and far across the bay he could see the shape of Bamburgh Castle, its grey stones purple in the reflected light from the sea. On a rock beside him a sandhopper explored the skeleton of a small shore crab that was embedded in a thatch of orange lichen, and in the smooth stones at the high-water line a sea anemone swayed in a rock-pool, betrayed by the tide. It was like being a boy again, and his father giving him a magnifying glass, pointing out some rare wild flower or insect, telling him always to notice everything he saw. To find out what it was, its life-cycle and its habitat. But the magic had all ended when his father died. And now it wasn’t wild flowers and insects that he observed so minutely, but people. Their life-cycles and their habitats. Trying to assess their strengths and weaknesses in case it might some day be of use.

  And that thought brought him back to Boyd. He had never really fathomed Boyd. He was loyal and experienced and had been consistently successful in all his operations. But there was part of him that seemed to be hidden away. Not deliberately perhaps, but it was there. A cut-off point. And his loyalty. Was it to the service or that pretty young wife of his? Which would get the casting vote if the chips were ever really on the table? He hadn’t worked out what he would say to Boyd to make him conform. He had sufficient confidence in his own powers of persuasion to be able to convince Boyd that the rules were the rules. And the particular rule in this case was that you did what you were told to do by the appropriate authority. When he knew that it was straight from the Deputy Under Secretary Boyd would surely conform. Some protest of course, but that was reasonable enough. There was a lot in what Boyd had said, but there were times when moral judgements had to be put aside and expediency ruled. That, of course, was what Goering and the others had said in their own defence at Nuremberg. But that wasn’t a just cause.

  He looked at his watch again and went through the radio drill. Boyd came back on the second call.

  “Snowdon calling Everest. I hear you.”

  “Everest acknowledging. Hotel in one hour. Confirm.”

  “Confirm. Over and out.”

  Cartwright pushed down the telescopic aerial and slid the set into his jacket pocket. A breeze had come up and he shivered momentarily as he brushed the sand from his trousers.

  Cartwright had ordered tea and toast in his bedroom and as he poured tea for them both he said, “Have some toast. You look half starved.”

  “What’s going on, Cartwright? What’s the word from Mount Olympus?”

  “The DUS asked me to pass on his congratulations for the good work you’ve done. He feels that you’ve placed us in an extremely strong position vis-à-vis Langley. For once we’ve got all the aces, and he’s very grateful.”

  “What’s all that add up to on the ground?”

  “He wants us to get the two Americans back as quietly as possible. And then we’ll decide what we want from Langley.”

  “And Walker and the girl?”

  “Walker? Who’s Walker?”

  “The ex-soldier who has nightmares.”

  “Of course. The name escaped me for a moment. Every effort will be made to help him sort himself out. Every effort.”

  “And they’ll release the girl?”

  “If it’s medically feasible, James. Her mental health has to be the first consideration. But everything will be done.”

  “Did you go along with this?”

  “Of course. I had no choice. It’s a direct order.”

  “Not for me it isn’t.”

  “James. Be reasonable. They’ll want to please you. There’s talk of an MBE, even an OBE, for your good work. Don’t make it more difficult for us all than it already is. Be reasonable.”

  “And if my idea of reasonable isn’t the same as yours, what then?”

  “That’s a hypothetical question, James.” Cartwright leaned forward to touch Boyd’s knee. “Help me, James. You won’t regret it.”

  “That’s a word you shouldn’t have used, Cartwright. Regret. It’s been in my mind for days. One thing I know is that if these bastards get away with what they’ve done, and it’s me who lets them off the hook, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”

  “For God’s sake, Jimmy. You’ve done far worse than this many times.”

  “Sure I have. But not to innocent people. The ones I killed were in the business. They knew the risks the same as I did. It was them or me. It could have been me. But not Walker and the girl. They were just bystanders. These bastards just decided they could be useful, and took them. They don’t even know what’s been done to them. They didn’t volunteer. There were no risks for these bastards. If it worked—great. If it didn’t—too bad. This isn’t what the SIS is all about. It isn’t what this country’s about. Nor the United States. It isn’t what I’m all about either. You have to draw the line somewhere, Cartwright. I wanted to hear what you’d have to say. I hoped you might have found some scruples while you were down in London.” Boyd stood up and Cartwright looked up at him.

  “Your scruples are at other people’s expense, Boyd.”

  “How do you make that out?”

  “If it was just that you wanted to draw the line for yourself you could take some leave and be out of it. Or you could resign.”

  Boyd shook his head slowly. “You really don’t understand do you?”

  As the door closed behind Boyd, Cartwright wondered what to do. And as he was thinking the phone rang.

  “Yes.”

  “Is that you, Cartwright?”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Carter.”

  “Where are you?”
/>
  “In a dump called Seahouses.”

  “What the hell are you doing up here?”

  “Playing sheepdog, pal. What’s the position with our friend?”

  “Why are you up here?”

  “Flycatcher’s orders. Didn’t he tell you?”

  “No.”

  “Well, what’s the situation?”

  “He won’t cooperate.”

  “So what’s he going to do?”

  “God knows.”

  “OK. Now listen, you stay right where you are. I’m taking over as of now. We’ve found where he’s holed up. But don’t interfere. I’ll come back to you when we’ve dealt with it.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “What do you think, sweetheart?”

  Cartwright could hear the derisive laugh long after he had hung up.

  Carter posted Maclaren and Sturgiss at the back of the cottage, and the marksman with his rifle in a piece of dead ground where the lawn met the wire fence of the adjoining field. Their small van in Post Office livery was parked a hundred yards down the lane alongside a telegraph pole. Grabowski and Carter were crouched below the window of the wooden shack at the far end of the cottage. There was only one way for Boyd to get to the cottage and there was still light enough to see him clearly.

  As Boyd turned the car into the bend in the lane he glanced at the Post Office van as he passed. He wondered why it was there, and then he jammed on the brakes. Switching off the engine he got out of the car and walked back to the van. He stood on the grass verge and looked up. As he had thought, it wasn’t a telephone pole, it was a pole carrying the electricity supply to the farm across the fields and to the cottage. So why a Post Office van instead of a van from the North East Electricity Board?

  The doors at the front of the van were both locked, and when he tried the double doors at the rear they were locked too. He looked around but there was nobody in sight. Everywhere was quiet except for the distant lowing of cows and a blackbird singing in the hedge.

  He walked slowly back to his car and unlocked the boot. He looked through the tool-kit and took out the tyre-lever and the heaviest spanner. Despite all his efforts the tyre-lever was too thick to go between the door and the body of the van. Taking off his jacket he draped it over the driver’s side window and smashed it with the spanner. Sliding his hand through the jagged hole he released the lock and opened the door. Sitting in the driver’s seat he went over the interior, checking it carefully. There was nothing. And the rear of the van was completely empty.