In the Mouth of the Tiger (125 page)

He paused, breathing hard, as all three men stared back at him, expressionless. The enormity of his outburst suddenly sobered him and slowly, carefully, he sat back down in his seat.

‘Quite finished?' Sillitoe asked icily. He had been a policeman and looked every inch a policeman now. Unconsciously Malcolm looked around for the men in white coats, and shivered. The nightmare was replaying itself: this was exactly how it had begun in Malaya.

And then something broke inside him, and he was shaking his head and almost whispering. ‘For God's sake don't do this to me,' he pleaded. ‘Please don't do this to me. I'd rather die than go through it all again.'

The three men continued to look at him, and then Sillitoe nodded slowly. ‘This is not a disciplinary board, Malcolm,' he said almost kindly.
‘We are here to help you. To make sure that you get better.'

It was the unexpected touch of kindness that completely destroyed him. Abruptly he was heaving and sobbing like a child, suffering hunched and alone before the three grim faces until the storm had passed and he could straighten his back and mop his face with his handkerchief and try to achieve some sort of tattered dignity.

For a long moment nobody said anything in the large, gloomy room, the silence broken only by the scratching of McKenzie's pen as he wrote heavily in his notebook. But it was not an awkward silence. It was the peaceful silence of acceptance. A deal had been struck. Malcolm had surrendered completely and would lose everything, but he would not be dragged away.

There was a protocol for situations like this and it was followed. Malcolm was taken ‘off line', his security clearances suspended, his papers and passes removed. He was transferred to A Branch, which handled the Service's financial and other resources. As a sop to his pride he was allowed to retain his little office, and he was given unsupervised project work to keep him busy. A make-work project, something to do with creating an inventory of field equipment due for replacement.

‘The first thing I'd do is to take a proper holiday,' Hollis said, sitting in Malcolm's office a day or so later. ‘It's up to you, old chap, but I do think it would be wise. So that you can get rid of any little demons that may be troubling you.' He suddenly sounded a little embarrassed, and cleared his throat. ‘Malcolm, you must know there has never been any question about your loyalty, or your dedication to your work. It's just that we cannot ignore a police report of the sort we received. We simply
had
to take it seriously. But in a year or two, who knows? Perhaps you might want another go at E Branch work? Get back out to the Colonies?'

Malcolm kept a straight face. ‘That would be nice, Roger,' he said. ‘Perhaps if you sent me back to Singapore I might get a chance to track down who betrayed poor Lieutenant Skripkin.'

Hollis smiled without malice. ‘I know you feel that you've been badly used. I'd feel the same if I were in your shoes. A lot of top work and absolutely nothing to show for it.'

Malcolm said nothing, just played with his fountain pen and looked steadily past Roger's right shoulder. He felt dead inside. A hollow shell, feeling nothing, thinking nothing.

Hollis seemed to make up his mind about something and came over
to perch himself on the corner of Malcolm's desk. ‘Look, I shouldn't tell you this, but the Elesmere-Elliott bill was torn up because you ran smack-bang into a legitimate MI6 operation. Really hush-hush stuff. I hope that makes you feel a little bit better.'

‘If there is a legitimate reason to pass military intelligence to an enemy, it doesn't leap readily to mind,' Malcolm said acidy. ‘If what I uncovered was a legitimate operation, Roger, why wasn't I simply indoctrinated?'

Hollis grimaced. ‘You know I can't answer that question, Malcolm,' he said. ‘I've said too much as it is. But I do feel that you deserve to know that that there were sound operational reasons for the decision to stop the bill.' Then he got up and extended a hand. ‘No hard feelings? And you will take a break?'

Malcolm pretended not to see the proffered hand, continuing to stare past Hollis at the desk Ann Last had occupied. They had obviously indoctrinated her. Presumably they trusted her.

Or perhaps she was stupid, and they'd felt it safe to feed her a line they knew he'd never accept. Either way, it settled nothing. Except that one way or another he had lost his only ally.

The numbness took about a week to wear off. He came in to the office every day, pushed silly bits of paper from his in-tray to his out-tray, then take his hat from the bentwood stand and wander home. The only time he felt even half alive was at the Salamat Makan, where he now dined every evening, sitting very upright, very sober, at his favourite table. He didn't feel worthy of his cigars, and saved them up, three each night, so that soon he had quite a pile in his humidor.

And then one day the dam of his indifference burst wide open. He woke up crying, his pillow soaked with tears, his voice hoarse from sobbing in his sleep. Had he really been reduced to this? An empty man in an empty world, alone and going nowhere? Everything he had ever done judged worthless and chucked out on the rubbish tip?

He sat on the edge of his bed in the cruel grey light of dawn and looked at the gun in its worn leather holster lying on the night table. He had not worn it for days, despite his promise to himself to wear it until he had done his duty.

He rubbed his hands wearily over his face. What had gone wrong? He had once been so sure where his duty lay, but somehow he had lost his way.

Fear. It had been fear that had turned him from his duty, turned him
into an empty shell of the man he had once been. Fear of the men in white coats, fear of the wards full of cackling madmen, fear of being tied down to a bed while they gave him shock treatment. Fear of being laughed at by his colleagues.

He stood up abruptly. Nothing could be as bad as this, he thought. Nothing.

He picked up the holster and strapped it on over his pyjamas. A symbolic gesture, but it gave him a feeling of being alive, of being himself again. He had promised to kill Denis Elesmere-Elliott, and he would carry out that promise. Whatever the risks, whatever the consequences.

It was a Saturday, and he began to put his plan into operation that very day. He took his forged documents and his secret cache of money, and hired a car in his false name. He bought a series of large-scale ordnance maps of Dorset and a pair of binoculars, and set his alarm for five the following morning.

The run down to Dorset through banks of early morning mist had been beautiful and exhilarating. He bought coffee and a couple of hot pies in Sturminster Marshall, sitting in his little car above the Wareham road sipping the hot liquid and munching the crisp pastry. He couldn't remember ever having felt more alive.

He found Almer and identified its Manor, a gracious stone house standing well back from the road. There was a little lake between the Wareham road and the Manor, surrounded by a copse of trees, and he parked his car and walked down and found a hide amongst the tangled hazel bushes.

He studied the house through his binoculars, working out the best angle of approach, the available cover, the best place to wait with his gun. There was a small church in the grounds, half-hidden by a massive yew tree. The church would provide an excuse to get close to the house, while the yew would be ideal cover for anyone watching the Manor's front door. It was almost too good to be true.

He began to work out a rough timetable. Could he do the job next weekend? He'd have to check when services were held at the church – he didn't want to run slap-bang into a happy congregation. He'd also have to get some idea when Denis was likely to be at home. It would be pointless waiting all day if the man spent Sundays in Bournemouth, or ran up to London each weekend.

It would mean having to watch the place over several weekends, he decided. Perhaps he'd even have to make discreet inquiries in the village.
It would take time, but then, he had all the time in the world. His quarry was not going anywhere, and this was one operation he was determined would go like clockwork.

And then he shook his head. That was not how it would be at all. This was not going to be a covert hit, but an execution in the full light of day. He would simply drive up to the Manor, meet Denis at the front door, shoot him, and then walk across to the church and wait there calmly for the police.

Of course, before he did that he would have to make sure that things were properly arranged in London. He'd need to have the spool of photographic film developed and copied. One copy for his lawyer, a backup copy stored with his bank. He'd need to swear out a statutory declaration explaining everything, just in case the police – or MI5 – bumped him off before he came to trial. He had no illusions about just how rough they would get as soon as he moved against Denis.

Suddenly a small party emerged from the house. A thickset woman in her fifties and three children, all well rugged up and carrying clipboards and measuring tapes. They came straight towards him across a frost-covered field, the children rosy-cheeked and laughing, the woman trying to be gruff and businesslike but failing. Malcolm knew that he should retreat from his hide but he put off the moment. These would be Nona's children, presumably with a nanny or governess in charge, and he wanted to watch them for a while and get some idea of how Nona's family had turned out.

There was a flash of reflected light from the Manor as someone opened an upstairs window, and he adjusted his binoculars to see who it had been. Nona was looking out at her children, her face soft with a smile. She looked indescribably beautiful.

For a moment, Malcolm was touched by a curious fantasy. He felt he was looking in on another universe, a universe where things had gone the way they should have gone. Nona was his wife. The beautiful house was his house. The children were his and Nona's. His eye was caught by the little girl, her blonde hair streaming as she ran, and he laughed and almost stretched out his arms as if she were running towards him.

But then the moment was over, and when he readjusted the binoculars Nona's face had gone from the window.

A man came out of the walled garden with a wheelbarrow and began planting bulbs on a bank beside the driveway. He was clearly ancient, and he moved with frustrating deliberation, pausing often to light up a cigarette
and puff contentedly. He was far too old to be effective, Malcolm thought irritably, and surely it was far too late to put in bulbs? If this were his home he'd give the man his marching orders.

A downstairs French door opened and Nona came out, followed a second or two later by Denis. The two chatted to the gardener for a moment, then wandered down towards the little lake, their breaths making little puffs of condensation on the chilly air. Malcolm realised again that he should retreat but still he couldn't move. The binoculars were fixed on Nona as he tried to read her every gesture, every expression on her face. At one point she laughed and caught at Denis's arm, and Malcolm was pierced by a stab of jealousy.

Now they had reached the group at the lakeside, and Malcolm knew they need only look his way to see him. But still he could not move. This was the closest he had been to Nona since the moment outside Starlight Bungalow, when she had come out unhesitatingly to tend him despite the gunfire from the jungle. In a kinder world they would both have died there, to be forever linked by a moment of heroic grandeur.

Tears squeezed from Malcolm's eyes, blurring his vision for a second. When he could see again Nona was staring straight at him. For a fraction of a second he hesitated, and then he was stumbling up the hill towards the Wareham road. He glanced back to see Denis coming around the lake after him, and began to sprint flat-out for his car. He could not believe how stupid he had been: if he were caught, or even recognised, his whole mission would be at risk.

He didn't have far to go but in the end it was a near-run thing. For some reason he ran clumsily, looking backwards every few steps and stumbling more than once. The two men reached the roadway with Denis a bare twenty yards behind, but then Malcolm was in his car, jabbing furiously at the starter button. The engine caught immediately, the tyres spun and he was on his way.

Stupid. How stupid he had been. He had put his mission at risk just to look at Nona for a while, to pretend she was still part of his world. The cost of infatuation, he told himself savagely. From now on he must steel himself. Stay focused. Keep the object of the exercise in the front of his mind.

But at least Denis could not have recognised him. They had never been closer than twenty yards and he'd had his hat over his eyes. And of course the car was untraceable.

His shoulders relaxed as he turned onto the London road.

But Denis
had
recognised him. ‘What in thunder possessed you?' Sir Percy Sillitoe asked. ‘The only reasonable inference I can draw is that you intend Elesmere-Elliott some sort of harm. What other reason could you have for snooping around his home with a pair of binoculars?'

Malcolm could only spread his hands helplessly. ‘I happened to be passing, Director-General. I saw a rather nice house and wandered down to take a closer look . . .'

‘Balderdash. You know perfectly well where Denis lives. You went down there to spy on him, didn't you? You must have had a reason for doing that. What is that reason?'

Malcolm opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. In truth, he was deeply shocked. It was the Monday after his visit to Dorset, and so far it had been a perfectly normal day. But he'd come back to his desk after a farewell tea for a colleague to find his office full of men and the Director-General himself sitting in his chair. His safe was open – not that there was anything in it – and the drawers of his desk had been up-ended so that the men from Security could sort through their contents.

‘I must assume the worst,' Sillitoe said in his official, policeman voice. ‘I must assume that contrary to our understanding you intend to take the Elesmere-Elliott business further. Either that or you have gone stark staring mad.'