The Vengeance Man (30 page)

The
N
ew South Bank Show
,  River Thames.

True to his word, Mallalieu was waiting by the steps of the Festival Hall at noon, reading the concert programmes. He made a big production out of pretending to have met me by chance, and wringing my hand. In his dark overcoat with its velvet collar, he looked a real toff: like a prosperous businessman or something in the City. But then that's really what he was, I suppose.  We strolled casually down towards the river, watching the barges and the tourist craft. It was a dull, grey sort of day and the seagulls were swooping over the wake of the launches screeching and arguing over scraps. Their screams echoed over the rumble of the trains from the bridges.

Mallalieu didn't speak for a while. Then, as we leant on the wall and contemplated the North bank, and its panorama of buildings, he began quietly to give his brief. It was, by all the text books, far too casual a brief for such an important task, but as Mallalieu spelt out Roberts'
background, itiner
ar
y, timings
and movement plans without a note or a break in his speech, I knew that he had got it right. I shut up and listened to his every word. This wasn’t exactly the sort of job where you marked your map.

He outlined a lot that no-one but an insider could have possibly known. I suppose it was the detail of his knowledge on Roberts' crime syndicates that was perhaps most impressive and convinced me that he was giving it to me straight. Currency, criminals, politicians, arms, drugs, terrorism: they all flowed out.  Mallalieu had names, places, events; even bank accounts. He had seen it all, that was clear.

He even dragged som
e
documents out of his inside pocket and showed me some things that made my eyes bulge.  Funnily enough the evidence of Roberts' treachery and double dealing between Russia and the CIA didn't surprise me at all. Maybe it was what I expected. But when Mallalieu recounted how Roberts had actually brokered the deal between the Colombian drug cartels and the Russian Mafia to become business partners and invest in television stations in Europe, I began to realize that Mallalieu had been right. Roberts was big, he was cunning and he was dangerous. Mallalieu showed me proof of Roberts personally paying off a British cabinet minister’s boyfriend and getting him a nice little job in the European Commission. He even had photocopies of copies of the incriminating love letters. Oh, I know that they could have been forgeries, but somehow I didn’t think they were. He had copies of e
-
mails confirming how
Roberts had
paid
off
an American senator’s gambling debts at Vegas and then contributed over $2million to his election campaign fund.

It was astonishing just how wide his tentacles spread.  He was selling arms in Jeddah to Al Qa’ida’s people and at the same time organising Saudi princes to buy smart houses in Boston,
Massachusetts
. I suppose it was all so obvious when you heard it, and so depressingly believable. I knew that big time politics were corrupt and that there was a big, secret world of back
-
handers and bribes out there, but I’d never realised before just how big – or how dangerous. The man was effectively the chairman of an invisible global organisation coordinating a huge international syndicate of crooked companies, straight companies, politicians and bankers
. J
ust as Mallalieu had said. Terrorists too.

Mallalieu ended by giving me a list of Robert’s itinerary for the next three days.
It was the only thing he handed me.  I scanned it, depressed to note that it included a meeting with the Prime Minister and a call on three embassies.

“Gets around, doesn’t he?” I grunted.

Mallalieu smiled wryly. “Now do you believe me?”

I nodded slowly. I was quite clear in my own mind that someone had to fix Roberts. I had very few questions and  they revolved around two clear choices: either I took Roberts out when he made a highly visible photocall to the front door of the  Department of Trade and Industry in Victoria Street or when he visited the Italian Embassy the following day.

"When's this DTI stunt timed for?"

"Tomorrow. About eleven o'clock." Mallalieu prodded a piece of chewing gum on the pavement with his umbrella and began to stroll away. I followed, thinking furiously.

"No, it can't be done.  That's not on." 

He looked at me, his head on one side. "Oh, why?

"Too soon; not enough recce; it's bound to be staked out with lots of cover and not enough getaway routes.  Anyway, it's just down Victoria Street from Scotland Yard.  It'll all be too much of a rush."

Mallalieu nodded, but it was an absent sort of agreement. "And so ...?"

"And so, it's got to be at the Italian Embassy."

"Why?"

I ticked off the points on my fingers. "The other visits I’d need to recce in detail. And there isn’t time. But I know Grosvenor Square, and the Italian Embassy….well, the front anyway. It’s an evening call; so it'll be dark.  It's later in the trip - he'll be more relaxed. Lots of getaway chances, and I can go for him going in or coming out. And I know a  hotel with a field of fire across the front of the Embassy."

Mallalieu gave the same absent nod. He seemed to be turning it over in his mind. A group of gulls went by in a shrieking dogfight over a crust. "OK, go to it. Do you need anything more? Support? Kit? Anything else?"

"No." The less unnecessary support I took, the cleaner the job should be, and the fewer links to cause trouble. "One question, though."

He stopped and faced me, an attentive listener.

"
When I use that Venus, won't everyone in Whitehall know it's me?" He didn't answer, so I cont
i
nued, "I mean,  MOD made it, the SAS know about it; they know you've got it ... "  I tailed off. Mallalieu
was smiling.

"Of course." It wasn't quite the answer, or the assurance, I'd expected from him. "That's why they gave it to us. That weapon is on my signature." He stressed the 'my'.

"But I mean, what if ... "

"Don't worry." He stared at me again.  "I won't say you stole it or took it, if that's what you're worried about. Just bring it back. It's my risk as much as yours
-
if you stop to think about it. I'm in charge of the Venus. The people who matter know I've got it.  They lent it to me. But no-one need ever know you had it.  That's your ultimate guarantee."

Something didn't add up, but it was hardly working against me. On the contrary, it all seemed too easy, too smooth. I probed for the awkward areas. "Do I do my own Close Target Recce?"

"As you choose - wouldn't you rather do the CTR all by yourself?"

I nodded. "Of course."

"Good." He nodded. "I agree. It's best that way. What about back up?"

"Would it be from the Firm?"

"If you want it – but I wouldn’t have thought you would need it - do you?"

I shook my head decisively. "No. The less folk know about this the better.” Mallalieu nodded agreement.

“No. I’ll do it solo. I'll do it as a one off." Again Mallalieu nodded in that absent fashion. I was becoming irritated by him seeming lack of concern. Despite the accuracy of his brief and his outline plan, he was too relaxed. "So that's it?" I demanded. "Just like that? Nothing else?”

Mallalieu smiled at me. "It's too easy? Is that it?"

"Yes." I had to agree.

He laughed. "I could make it really difficult for you, you know. Would you like me to warn the Special Branch bodyguards? Perhaps a few roof-top marksmen from the Armed Response Units watching for you?"

"Of course not."

"Well, don't be bloody silly. Just be grateful it's all designed to give you a clear run." He looked ostentatiously at his watch. "Now, if you're happy with your story ... "

I gave in. "OK. The day after tomorrow. Evening."

"Good." He smiled a rare smile. "Cheer up. You're doing a public service; there are no catches, I promise you. Here." He reached into his overcoat pocket and produced a small brown glass bottle of pills. "You'll need these, for phase one."

I took them. “It’s all right,” he added hastily, spotting my expression
, “They’r
e
not poison pills. L pills are strictly for the CIA these days – and most of them get thrown away by the users, I understand.”

He explained what they were. I had to admit it, phase one of Mallalieu's plan was simple, but bizarre.  It sounded uncomfortable. He caught my eye. "Well; put them away.  Here's the other essential." The other essential was a briefcase, stuffed full of props for his plan--and
bundles
of money.

"It's
twenty
thousand," he responded to my unasked question.  “All used twenties and tens. Pay your expenses out of that. No accounts, no receipts.  Got it?"  I nodded. “And don't give me any b
ack. I couldn’t account for it.
"
I raised my eyebrows. "Good. Just one thing,"
he said, suddenly swinging in  front of me.
"How do you feel about this?"

"Feel? How do you mean, feel?" He didn't say anything and just stared at me. "I get it. You're wondering if I've got a bad conscience about doing it. Can I really do it ? Is that it?"

"Hardly surprising, really? After all, you're being asked to undertake a pretty unusual job, aren't you?"

Suddenly I thought of Spicer and the cold pleasure I'd felt mallet
t
ing the Brixton muggers. I couldn't help laughing. This was much easier. "I've done stranger jobs than this: believe me." I looked at him full in the eye. "What you mean is, 'would Harry Plummer approve?'"

Mallalieu dark eyebrows shot up.   "No, I
don't
mean that. But it's a good point--a very good point."  He looked away, thoughtful. "No, I don't think we'll be asking dear Harry for his signature on this one."  He mused, then looked hard at me. "So you're alright about this, eh?"

I smiled at him, and I meant it. "Yes. I'm all right. You don't have to worry. I'll do it. It's just a job. Tell you the truth, I’ll enjoy taking the bastard out. It’s as good a cause as any." A thought struck me. "By the way, does this op have a code word?"

Mallalieu smiled a sardonic smile. Yes. It's 'Moriarty.'"

"Whose idea was that?"

"Yours, indirectly.   Didn't you say to me, 'So there really is a Professor Moriarty?' "

"That’s right….Then it's,  'Goodbye, Moriarty': right?"

He laughed. "I knew I'd made the right choice."  He glanced up towards the steps leading to Westminster Bridge. "Now, I really must go.  Get sick. Stay at home. Come back when you're well.   OK?  Good luck."

And with a cheerful wave of his umbrella, he strode away, the picture of polish and prosperity. As he went up the steps, he even drew an appreciative glance from an obvious blue-rinsed tourist as she waddled down with her camera-draped husband. I shook my head in disbelief and went off in the other direction.

I kept a tight grip on the briefcase. With that lot, at least I'd be able to afford lunch.

CHAPTER 29

A PINT WITH A PAL, Whitehall

In the bar of the Clarence, I pushed through the crowd to grab a pint, when a portly figure jabbed me in the ribs. I swung towards him, to see the bearded, grinning face of Paddy Croft, bellowing, "Have a drink, old son, have a drink"

I hadn't seen Lieutenant Commander Paddy Croft in years. He was a naval reservist, who spoke several languages. His German was a bloody sight better than mine, but then he kept in practice. No Arabic, but he did Russian when it mattered as well, I remembered. His reserve speciality closely mirrored his full time Civil Service job, that of being a member of the Combined Interrogation Team, working out of the Home Office.  He worked for MI5 debriefing Whitehall's delinquents.

Paddy had been a submariner until he'd failed to make skipper on the Navy's infamous submarine commander's course, the dreaded 'Perisher,' and the general raffish air and
bonhomie
of the submarine service was still reflected in his dress and manner.   He fell on me like the father of the prodigal son and insisted we take our sausages and pints to a corner table to reminisce about the past.

He'd never really forgiven me for not talking to him on a particularly vicious Resistance to Interrogation course run by the Intelligence Corps deep in the Bavarian mountains years ago.  The course had broken every rule in the book, much to the satisfaction of the SAS, and the discomfiture of some of the slightly surprised RAF aircrew who had only been ordered on the course as part of their general escape and evasion training.  It had been strictly big boys’ rules in those days. No bloody nonsense about political correctness or keeping the Minister happy. We’d been training for war.

The interrogators and their hard faced allies from the Navy and the RAF had been
typically non-commi
t
tal about
the minor brutalities perpetrated, apart from a splendid row that had developed between a fat careerist Colonel with an eye to his future in the MOD and one of his leaner and more operational brethren who had forcefully pointed out that any real enemy would be a damned sight less restrained than the Joint Service interrogators, so sod the rules; after all we were training for real war, not some judicial committee of the House of Commons.  The argument had got angry and the fat colonel had made the fatal mistake of trying to pull rank and bully the SAS major.

On a dark night in Bavaria, the angry outcome had warmed the bored off-duty interrogators' hearts. The fat colonel had returned to Whitehall with a sore jaw and his public reputation – and his pride – in tatters. But then, it hadn't been a physically comfortable experience for many of the SAS boys being interrogated either. Maybe the fat colonel had experienced a little reality training too. Paddy and I had both been there. Since then Paddy remained convinced that my deepest ambition in life was to work for the government again but this time as a civil servant in the Intelligence World.  He couldn't have been more wrong. Or was I doing it already?

I didn’t know.

Eventually the conversation turned towards the present.  "Still working for the same firm?" He asked me in his chesty boom.

I nodded. "And you? Still asking tricky questions for HMG?"

He laughed. "Oh yes. Still chief
of the TV interviewers. There's no lack of guest speakers for the great Whitehall
chat show
nowadays.  Particularly for own, our very own, FBI."

I was puzzled.
"FBI? I thought we weren't letting the Met..."

"Not the
Met
, you poor innocent youth.  No, The bloody Box. The Security Service.  Five are now up to their elbows in
criminal
investigations nowadays. Forget secrecy: it's survival, old thing. 
M
e, I'd have tipped half the second rate harpies out into the snow, where they belong, after the Wall came down and we got all chummy with the KGB.   Oh no. Jobs were at risk.  So today they’re all failed feminist lawyers and journalists, all looking out for their jobs. Chasing terrorists and crime. I tell you,  Box 500’s become a bloody FBI in all but name...."

He drank deeply from his pint. "Crimes-R-Us; that's the Box's mot
to now.  Tossers! ‘Crimes-R-Us’
.
That and ‘Terrorism-for-Ever’. Well for the foreseeable future anyway. Terrorism’s the game all right.  My God, they held celebration parties in Millbank the morning that Al Qa’ida went for New York. Best thing that ever happened to them. Assured their jobs for ever. A war on terror and international drug traffickers and all run by little girlies in Millbank, so far up the government’s arse that they’d shit themselves if they ever met a real terrorist coming down the passage the other way.  Terrorism and Organised crime. Oh no. Our esteemed Security Service is a growth industry these days, my old chum; budgets, money, resources, recruits. You name it, MI5 are the boys to be with these days. Or girlies, I should say. Especially if you’re coffee-coloured and speak Arabic. Join the new politically correct, ethnically diverse female lawyers group. Become a member of MI5!”  He bellowed with laughter. “Well that makes me redundant!” He drank his beer. No, I’m dealing with small fry stuff these days.
Ready to retire. No Soviet defectors nowadays. All routine stuff. Why, we're even coming to talk to some of you blokes in the insurance world next week."

I  listened carefully. "Insurance?"

"Yes, We're coming to talk to your firm, I think. 'Specialist Insurance Services'." He shook his head ruefully. "What a name.  You must be barmy. SIS. Barmy..."

I was now alert and very switched on. "You're coming to us; to SIS Ltd? The CIT?"

"Sh." He frowned and looked around. "No need to advertise, old son. We don't want to alert the opposition, do we?"

"What's the case?" I asked as idly as I could. Harry Plummer's face rose unasked in my mind's eye.

Paddy shrugged a massive shrug, and buried his nose deep into his glass, "Search me. Won't know till next Monday. Bit unusual, though."

Non-committal, I asked why.

"Well, it's strange when  someone like the CIT, which is essentially a government asset is tasked to do a job in what's supposed to be a private company.  Mind you, there are private companies and private companies. And your lot's come to someone's attention." He leered at me, stroking his beard, eyes twinkling. He looked like Captain Hook, contemplating a fat galleon. I searched my mind.

At first I'd thought Paddy might be looking for me, the mysterious ex-SAS bagman.  Now, of course, I realised that he must be part of the official 'silence Jonno Briggs' set-up. It all made sense.  I relaxed a little. Of course, it had to be Briggs.  Short of cementing him permanently into a motorway bridge support, the company had little choice by to put the frighteners on him, and who better than the CIT?  Mallalieu must have moved fast to have called in his old friends in Whitehall.

"When did you find out? That you were coming to see us, I mean."

"Oh, sometime this morning." Paddy waved his empty glass vaguely. I took the hint.

"I reckon that you're going to be asked to talk to a chap called Briggs. Jonno Briggs. Have another?"

"I thought you'd never ask." He handed me his glass and rolled a moist but shrewd eye around the pub.  "Briggs, eh? What's his claim to fame?"

I filled him quietly in on Briggs' e
s
capade.
Then we lapsed  into shop and talk of old friends before I took a cab back to the office, promising to give Paddy lunch 'when he popped over to see us next week'.

I spent the afternoon clearing the decks for phase one of Mallalieu's plan to dispose of
'Moriarty'.  It was typical of Mallalieu's misplaced sense of humour.  By four o'clock his plan was working so well that the senior clerk on shift had suggested I see a doctor and eventually sent for Mallalieu himself.

He came in, took one look at my white face, glistening with sweat as I clutched my belly, wracked by stomach cramps, and ordered me home in a cab, without the option. I had to go to the lavatory again before I left. The little bottle of pills that Mallalieu had slipped me on the Embankment had certainly laid me out. I vowed silently to fake being sick next time. If there ever was a next time. I could swear that there was a vindictive gleam in Mallalieu's eye as he
handed me the Venus case and
closed the cab door. I was going to be off for three days all right.

And everyone in the office knew, only too well, just how sick I'd been - they were still cleaning it up as I was led out.