by Daniel Kemp
I will not bore you with the flow of expletives that left my mouth, nor the extent of the fury I dispensed on both my loyal, most trusted aides. I will merely leave it to say that when my senses returned to where they should have been, I felt cold and shivery through the disgust of myself and nothing but admiration for the two whom my anger had unjustly targeted. It took me some time to calm down, during which I waved Fraser away from joining my solitary company, walking alone with nowhere to go and a head full of nothing but sorrow. As I've intimated, the problem was I couldn't work out who the sorrow was for, and before I could move on, I really had to.
* * *
For the first few miles of our silent journey returning to London, I toyed with the idea of ringing Sir John Scarlett from the car phone, acting as though I was calm as a mill pond in arranging to discuss the 'staffing files' he'd got his hands on but, try as I might, I wasn't in a good enough place mentally to carry the pretence off; that was until the unexpected happened and he called me. I quickly pulled myself together before taking his call.
After the predicable commiserations and his laboured utterances of comfort, I broached the subject of the current investigations into the ancient Operation Donor together with Kudashov, his offer, and his granddaughter Cilicia. Had it been possible to hear the beat of his heart, then I'm positive it would have been beating fast enough to pass for a plausible percussion display a concert drummer would have been proud of. Had I told him everything about our Russian friend, then I might have had to face the charge of manslaughter.
* * *
He and I had a strained working alliance. In all reasonableness, I could not have expected anything other. His service record put him ahead of me by most criteria applicable in promotional matters and judged accordingly, but I had leaped over him into the only remaining position above, and I felt he had not settled well with that hierarchy formation.
When I was first appointed, he was supportive in a reassuring manner, somewhat avuncular and encouraging as a relative might be from the touchline in a game of schoolboy rugby, but I never thought I had his full backing. My impression was that he was hoping I would fail and, as a result, he would be asked to take my place. After all, it was he who had the in-house, managerial experience. I came from the street and could only offer an operational perspective, thorough though it was. There was of course another rival for the Joint Intelligence chair and that came from the Director General at internal military security, the MI5 chief, Sir Elliot Zerby.
From him I felt less antipathy. Indeed, I thought there was a resigned liking. However, over the four years that have passed since then, I feel that Zerby was simply happy where he was when I ascended to Fraser Ughert's throne, Sir Elliot's thirst for power being quenched. Both Scarlett and Zerby were a lot closer to retirement age than I and, whereas my age difference to Fraser's made him the closest thing I'd had to a father, the differences in years between me and the two heads of the departments below my own made me very much their younger sibling. In reality, it had not taken me long to establish myself in the chair of JIC, but that was not achieved through any sense of subjugation. I confirmed my position by, I hope, the harmony of a shared purpose. However, being the type I was, I always kept an eye on my back.
* * *
I arrived at the Foreign and Commonwealth building apartment, adjacent to my offices, as soon as the weight of traffic and propriety had allowed me to leave Fraser and Molly. Although there were many international agendas on my mind, they had become mere distractions when it came to finding Hannah's killer. Taken literally, the words written on the white woven writing paper inside the murderer's envelope referred to the assassinations Fraser and I had ordered in the hunt for the elusive Circle of Eight and towards the subsequent discovery of the lethal weapons trained on unsuspecting victims.
It matters not if it was collective decision of all Eight of those despots to murder my wife or just one of them who had ordered Hannah's death as an act of reprisal, I held them all responsible. Hannah's relatives, the Rothschilds, were I believed part of that Circle, although up until now I did not think their involvement held the same threat of some others. I had met with Samuel Rothschild when the weapons Henry Mayler had assembled were made known to the American Chief of Defence Staff and the syndicate Mayler worked with was dismantled. Samuel Rothschild was a reassuring connection to reality. I held no suspicions of his involvement in this heinous crime. Given all that, it was still my intention to put an end to the mystery surrounding our wedding gift of The Lodge. As I had abandoned all thoughts of her assassination being connected to the Rothschild family, I hadn't abandon those thoughts towards the Rosicrucian fraternity. I could not. But sometimes that which is the most obscure is the obvious, and the opposite of that is also true.
* * *
Hannah's collection of departmental files, some with spots soaked in blood that no amount of wiping could completely erase, were on my desk when I arrived in my office after first composing myself for an hour or so in the memory-laden apartment. As I open the first mustard coloured folder, a pencilled note of Hannah's dropped to the floor. It was impossible to stop my eyes following her distinctive writing and as it settled beside my foot. I started to cry.
Chapter Twelve: Thursday Evening
I had managed to shuffle the staff between the Greenwich Auxiliary Intelligence Service, the AIS, and at Group, thereby allowing for the temporary promotion of Michael Simmons to fill Hannah's position here at Joint Intelligence. He wasted no time in arriving and, within minutes of him stepping inside the offices, I'd set him to work looking into Nikita Sergeyovitch Kudashov's data files, trying to find if there was any traceable rationality for his antagonism towards American intelligence and his preference to us. I also needed knowledge on where his British cover of 'Ivy' had taken him, especially when it came to his travels in Russian territory. Sir John Scarlett was due at my office in two hours. I needed a wise, all-knowing ear in the Foreign Office before I met him and I knew just the man.
“Yes, Patrick, I can fill in some of the spaces without you spending hours researching the period. 1982 was a very volatile year. It can be summarised by a few words; unemployment was rocketing at home. Margaret Thatcher was stamping her authority by sinking the Argentine battleship in the Falklands War. The left-wing, murdering terrorist group, The Red Brigade, was sending shivers down every civilised person's back, and Ronald Reagan was pushing the boundaries before starting World War Three. As if all of that was not enough to worry about, Israel invaded Lebanon without letting us know.”
He was being sarcastic about the last thing, but for a while his phlegmatic diplomat's face had me fooled. As he carried on, he smiled; however, I wasn't sure if the smile was because of my stunned expression or simply because he felt he was back in the time when he held positions of great responsibility.
“I was a private secretary at Number 10 in those days. There weren't many days that were uneventful. Yes, now, your question. The invasion of Poland, that wasn't an invasion. It was an invasion in the sense that Russia sent military advisors and some chaps in dirty overcoats who looked dark and threatening, but the Poles used their own security and military forces to quell the riots. At one point, dear old Uncle Ronnie had thoughts of stepping it up a few gears, but thankfully his foreign advisors got a word in his ear and he dashed off to his country retreat to speak to the Israelis. We in the UK calmed everything down as much as we could.
“I wasn't part of the innermost sanctum, but despite not knowing all that was going on, I can tell you this much. We had permanently open lines from the Cabinet to the War Office and NATO along with a private link to wherever President Reagan went. As you know, in the United Kingdom we don't use the DEFCON, the defence readiness condition that's used in America; we use a more straightforward threat status, even so our threat status was severe and the US was at DEFCON one, their highest ever. War would not have been a complete shock.” A grim expression filled his face. It didn't last too long.<
br />
“There was one comical occurrence just after HMS Conquer sank that Argentinian battleship that I recall. At a press conference, a reporter from the Guardian asked if the UK had her whole nuclear fleet of submarines at sea. 'We wouldn't have a fleet of anything if the socialist party your rag supports was in power, would we,' the parliamentary press secretary retorted, to which most in the room laughed.
“Of course we did have the whole fleet at sea, but not because of the Falklands skirmish. It was because of Reagan and his military exercises. They were extensive and very frightening. I'm sorry about your wife, by the way. It must have been a terrible shock. I hope you're able to keep busy. That's the only way known to man to overcome the loss of a loved one. I have the documents you requested here, Patrick. I would have thought this to be somewhat strange reading material for you at this tragic time.”
I left my old Foreign Office acquaintance and met with Scarlett, armed with a little more knowledge than I had previously.
* * *
Sir John Scarlett had lost his wife to pancreatic cancer quite a few years before my marriage to Hannah, but neither he nor I had ever mentioned his past, nor shared any time away from our intelligence service responsibilities. It was a known fact he was a gregarious type, loved company, and since recovering from the loss of his wife, socialising with pretty young female companions. The latest to grace his arm was a very lovely brunette named Julia. Each had been vetted in much the same way as Michael Simmons had on his promotion to become my steward. Although our investigative procedure in the examination of those about to be privy to secrets of national importance was extensive and thorough, I for one was never completely satisfied and, as a consequence, treated everyone with suspicion.
In Scarlett's case there had been rumours about his loyalty, as there had been about mine. Doubts had arisen about me because of the meteoric rise I'd taken through the ranks. Scarlett's were on account of his dalliance with a variety of beautiful women. We had both been the subjects of exhausting inquiries and exonerated from any suspicion; however, my overall concern lay with the integrity of the committee, who judged the investigations and who wrote their clearance. Despite my misgivings, I wasn't looking to start a fight with any of them; for now at least.
* * *
Sir John had immaculate dress sense, which was accentuated by his tanned complexion come by, I was told, the amount of time he spent on his yacht in the Solent. Ever since I was conscious of sailing yachts, the wind in their sails and the noise of rushing water as the bow beats through the waves, I'd wanted one of my own. Maybe one day, I mused as I both admired his sense of style and loathed his acquiescence to the social divide.
For our business discussion, he wore a blue and grey striped linen suit, blue shirt with his Eton school tie. He even wore the college striped socks paired with his highly glossed, polished dark brown brogues. He was a prominent man who carried his prominence with distinction. He would, I suspect, be the first to admit that his years in service to the Crown had benefitted him well, as his chubbiness attested to. His liking of fine claret was a thing around which legends had been built. Fortunately, my apartment housekeepers were well versed in providing liquid comforts to the grandees of the various Civil Service departments entertained in my fine bedecked rooms.
After filling two glasses from a forty-three-year-old Château Margaux, that if told of the price I would probably die, we settled down to our discussion, facing each other from opposite sofas. The vision of Hannah always choosing to sit where he now sat was imprinted on my mind and would not budge. I felt compelled to explain. His reaction was one of complete surprise. There was a genuine sympathetic tone to what I had expected to be insincere platitudes and, to his suggestion of a simple switch of seats, I gratefully accepted and then felt miserly of my assessment of him. But business is business on the road to everything, so it was not long before we were recalling operations where our paths had crossed in one way or another, with me citing the St Petersburg operation we both were involved in when a Hungarian air force major wanted a way out of the Warsaw Pact military. I had held his hand on another freighter into the same port of Hamburg, and then it was the plain John Scarlett in those days who we'd met at the dockside and took over. We drank a toast to that success and a couple more toasts for operations we had collaborated on. The more memories we shared the closer I felt, but still that feeling of a distanced distrust remained.
* * *
The handwritten note of Hannah's that had caused me such distress was her explanation of how little of the Operation Donor was collated in draft. She went on to suggest that one reason could be answered by her reference to Scarlett being designated as the senior duty officer assigned to the Soviet Satellite desk in 1982, the same desk as Miles Faversham, but one step below him. However, that decrease in serving rank meant that overall Scarlett had more of a workload than Faversham.
* * *
The Americans were signed in as honorary Defence Intelligence staff, which made it simple to explain away to any unauthorised inquisitive looks. At the bottom of the note she had meticulously written, she'd scribbled—'Needs Scarlett's clarification.' It did indeed!
“Yes, that was my role for your Operation Donor, Patrick. But of course you were under a different name then, weren't you: Frank Douglas, wasn't it?”
“I was, yes. Let me compliment you on a marvellous memory. What I want to know, John, is why were the Americans allowed to take an interest in me and a Polish girl with possible StB connections?”
“It wasn't a memory from twenty-five years past. I read up on the operation last night. It's a good job you gave me that chance, otherwise I would have looked a complete idiot round about now, which wouldn't do at all.”
His obvious enjoyment of the wine was shown by his replacing the small amount he'd tasted before he opened a red leather-bound well-used notebook with a stub of a pencil in a matching elastic holder at its side. He thumbed through some crossed-out pages until he arrived at the unfinished page that was in current use. He glanced at that opened page as he continued.
“According to what I read there was a US naval commander, David Forman, overshadowing Miles Faversham, who liaised with Fraser Ughert at Group, who in turn was the operation link to the Ministry of Defence. But both Forman and Faversham were under an American Air Force flyer by the name of Jacob Ward. I have him down as a lieutenant colonel, but I'm sure your investigations uncovered his CIA credentials.”
“CIA hierarchy carrying British passes stamped Defence Intelligence staff, yes I saw that. Almost fainted when I did, but I survived. I also saw mention of the Joint Air Reconnaissance Intelligence Centre.” I had read the brief report that Hannah and Michael's research on the Centre had uncovered, along with the background on the next point I put to him.
“There was a round-the-houses account of how some photographic imaging from Poland found its way to the Imagery Control Commission at an RAF post in Germany. Other than the length of the report, which as I said was very longwinded, there was nothing unusual, except where those images began their journey. From Ministry of Defence Intelligence, not as would be the normal procedure from the duty officer Soviet Satellite. But I'm ahead of myself somewhat. Correct me as I'm going along on this, John.” We locked eyes at that stage, but his attention returned to his wine as I continued.
“Whilst I was in Czechoslovakia on the first phase of Operation Donor, during the month of May 1982, I was strictly British interest, nobody else looking in and making suggestions. Then, when I was sent to Poland in late July, the CIA were invited to run along with us? Have I got that right?”
A strained expression accompanied his reply. “I'm not too clear whether they were invited but, as far as my knowledge goes, they certainly were not in operational control. I was second on that with Faversham out on point.
“Okay, John, I'll come back to that if needed. But for now can you explain why the same operational name was kept when it took place in two separate countri
es with a gap in time in between both operations?”
“Sorry, can't answer that as I've no idea. I must admit it seems strange looking back on it, but a lot of stuff seemed strange to me around that time.”
“An interesting answer.” I hadn't expected so much candour from him. “Was there anything in particular that stood out as strange?”
“Some of the Falklands stuff coming out of that CIA station that's still here near Admiralty Arch was in dangerous conflict with some of the Argentinian stuff. Some of it was going out from that base to a unit the Americans had hurriedly assembled in Bogotá, Columbia, easily read by the Argentinians because it went out in decrypted Spanish script, laying false information that was very easily cheeked. The PM loved it of course, but we hadn't asked for anything on that score and when it came to repaying that credit note, I can remember the cost and thinking she had caved in too readily. But that's not what I'm here to divulge, is it, Patrick?”
“I haven't asked you here to divulge anything sensitive to those unfortunate times, John. I simply want any clarification you can throw on what seems to be a curious decision in coding two operations by not only the same name, but by sending the same officer into the two separate countries involved. Looking back on it, a little dangerous and certainly unorthodox, I would have thought. Are you aware of any particular reason for sending me in on both operations?”
