However, the unanswered question in all this was whether Garlinge had actually known where the weapons were about to be diverted to, or whether he suspected but was indifferent so long as he was paid. It was a question I couldn’t put to him because he was now dead. Prima facie, to the world at large, Garlinge had died from a heart attack. There was no evidence to suggest foul play and the media tomorrow would report his death as being through natural causes. But an autopsy had found evidence suggesting his demise had been triggered by air being injected into his veins. According to his wife, she’d heard voices around midnight and, a few hours later, she’d found her husband’s dead body in the driveway. Sticking a needle into someone is a very direct and personal act, with obvious intent. This had clearly been intended to kill him, and it had succeeded.
Almost thirty-six hours after his death, police had yet to uncover any clues pointing to the killer. Files pertaining to poisoners or persons known to have used needles to kill had been examined closely, but no viable suspect could be identified. The only two who came close were incarcerated in prison, and both could be accounted for at the time of death.
One issue now, as I saw it, was the question of what Armswatch would do with the information it was in possession of. The obvious course of action would be to pass it on to the Serious Fraud Office and let them investigate the matter. But, given that Armswatch’s mission was to make life as uncomfortable for companies like Bartolome Systems as possible, I suspected this, on its own, would be insufficient. Did they still intend to hand what they knew over to the press, hoping the revelations would be widely publicised? The political firestorm this would produce would be intense, and Smitherman had already told me neither the Government nor MI6 wanted the public to be made aware that UK-manufactured arms had been involved in the massacre in Burundi, especially as Burundi was a nation the UK had placed high up on its cause for concern list regarding ongoing human rights abuses.
Ultimately, of course, Armswatch could do nothing with the information and just sit on it, waiting for a more propitious moment, but this seemed a lot like an alcoholic holding a full bottle and not taking a drink from it. Clements had said he was due to meet with Graves sometime soon to discuss what Armswatch knew, and Clements would be drooling like a dog in heat to get his hands on that information.
There were issues I had no explanation for concerning Garlinge, including the curious one of why the real cause of his death was being hidden behind the edifice of national security. There was also the question of why he had been the recipient of a sizeable discount on his flat at Septimus House. What had he done to merit this consideration? Had bribery been an issue here as well? I also had no explanation as to why he’d paid an unaccompanied visit to Bozetti when he’d been in Milan with a Parliamentary delegation earlier in the year. He’d already been there with the delegation; why had he returned on his own?
I then had a thought as to how I might be able to find out.
*
Just before one in the afternoon, I was standing on a busy corner waiting to meet a woman from the Italian embassy. I’d remembered that, when I’d been investigating money laundering earlier in the year, Christine Simmons, a friend in MI5, had told me she’d obtained information about shell companies based in Italy from a woman she knew at the embassy. I’d phoned Simmons and, after a few preliminary greetings, asked if it’d be possible for me to talk to her embassy contact. I explained why I was asking. She said she’d ask her, and then paused.
“Hmm,” she mused, “she’s a very attractive woman, y’know. Not sure I should put you with her. How do I know your motives are honourable?”
We’d laughed as I’d protested my innocence, stating I was a newly married man, but she knew I wouldn’t be asking unless I had a good reason.
“I’ll give her a call, see if she’s prepared to talk. Oh, and congrats to you and Sally.”
She’d been on duty and unable to attend the reception. I thanked her for the lovely card she’d sent.
Seven minutes later she’d called me back, telling me where and when to meet this lady.
“Thanks, I owe you one. How will I know this woman?”
“Oh, she’ll know you.” She sounded amused.
She did. I was standing on the corner where Brook Street intersects with New Bond Street, watching as clotheshorses from both genders walked past in their expensive suits and fashionable work outfits, wondering just how big a percentage of their disposable income some people spent on their work attire, or clothes in general. Some of the items of clothing I saw being worn probably cost more than my car. From the almost haughty way some people were carrying themselves, I was wondering if they weren’t just strolling around showing off their apparel. The thought had just struck me I was somewhat underdressed in a leather jacket, dark blue polo shirt and black Levi’s, when I heard a well-modulated Italian voice behind me.
“Robert McGraw.” She was telling me rather than asking.
I turned and came face to face with a woman of exquisite, dark-skinned Mediterranean beauty. She had dark curly hair and lots of it, piercing green eyes, plus a smile and a figure which would give the Pope cause for immediate concern. She was about five foot six and wearing a dark business suit and a creamy white blouse opened at the collar, revealing a small crucifix round her neck. I guessed she was early thirties, though, if she’d said she was twenty-five, I’d have believed her. She looked like a picture from Vanity Fair magazine and dressed like a model in Vogue. I could see why Simmons had said she was very attractive. She was certainly turning a few heads.
I agreed I was indeed Robert McGraw.
“I’m Victoria Sacchialli.” We shook hands.
“You with AISE?” I asked, smiling.
“I work at the Italian embassy,” she replied neutrally. Her English was excellent, with little sign of any accent.
I suggested we talk in the nearby coffee house, and we took a table on the pavement and ordered two coffees. I explained why I’d asked to speak to her, stating I was interested in knowing what Italian security knew about a company called Bozetti, although it was possible Simmons had told her already. She sipped her Americano coffee and smiled. But, before she spoke, I asked how she knew who I was.
She laughed. “You look like your picture on our files.”
As she spoke, two twenty-something guys walked past, giving me the quizzical stare which said how’s someone dressed like you sitting with her? I held their gaze for a few seconds and they turned away.
“Sorry,” I said, finally registering what she’d just said, “did you say I’m on your files?”
“When someone employed by a section of the security service in England is known to be a friend of someone we regard as a terrorist in our country, we need to know about this man,” she said, fixing me with a serious look, “so we’ve had you checked out.”
I knew whom she meant. “You’re referring to Michael Mendoccini.”
She nodded. “Before I answer any questions, tell me about you and him.”
She made it sound like an order. I was sure she already knew and was asking to check whether my reply coincided with what was recorded on AISE files. I felt like I was being interrogated.
“Yeah, I know Michael. We were best mates for years, right up to my going to university, but I’ve seen him, what,” – I shrugged – “twice in the past fourteen or so years, and one of them was the first time since I was eighteen.”
I didn’t mention we’d spoken three nights ago.
She asked if I was aware of his involvement with Red Heaven.
“Not when I met up with him first time, I wasn’t. He was just a friend I’d not seen for about thirteen years, so I was really pleased to meet up with him again after all this time, and we exchanged contact details. Soon after this I met him again in—”
She broke in as I spoke. “Yes, I’m familiar with your background with Mendoccini, where you met up with him and your meeting with him again in a West End pub.” She smi
led knowingly. She obviously hadn’t been kidding when she’d said they’d had me checked out. “Why did you meet him again when you now knew what he was? You’d been told he was involved with Red Heaven.”
“Why? Because he was a friend I’d not seen for many years. He and I have a lot of history together, and I just wanted one more night with my oldest friend because I knew it could never happen again,” I felt a twinge of sadness saying this. “Psychologists call this closure.”
She sipped her Americano and gave me a look I found hard to read. “Probably not the wisest thing you could have done,” – she sounded like my mother – “and I heard you came under suspicion for this. Your Colonel Stimpson was most unhappy at learning about your action. However, Christine says your boss cleared you and you can be trusted. I trust Christine, so I accept her word. If I didn’t, I would not have agreed to this.”
She then got down to business. She began by informing me of Italian security’s concerns about Bozetti, saying they knew about the weapons which’d been diverted to Burundi, which I’d mentioned to Simmons, and they were not the first known to have gone astray.
“We know for a fact some of the weapons Italian security’s taken from Red Heaven can be traced back to Bozetti by make and serial number, and we have one or two in our sights inside the business who might be responsible. And it’s not just them either. We also think, one time, the IRA acquired weapons from Bozetti. From Bozetti to Libya and then on to those dissident factions in the IRA who still believe in the armed struggle.”
“The IRA?”
“Yes, and we think someone in this country had a hand in it.”
“In what way?” I was confused.
She didn’t answer the question. “But we’ve had trouble pinning down which person is responsible for these weapons being in the possession of terrorists.”
My thoughts centred on Harry Ferguson. I knew of his involvement with a known IRA bomber, Cormac McGreely. Earlier today, Clements had told me his source had spoken about intelligence involvement in securing export licenses, and not all weapons having reached the destination intended.
She sipped more of her coffee and put her cup down very delicately with a gentle, classy economy of movement. “But recently we had a, ah, sfondamento.” She lapsed into Italian, seemingly unsure of the right word. “Does this word sound right, a breakthrough?”
I nodded my agreement.
“We had a breakthrough earlier this year. Four members of Red Heaven were arrested at one of their safe houses outside Milan, and we discovered a large arms cache. From this we were able to prevent Red Heaven going ahead with an action one of our informants had told us they were planning.”
The expression on her face told me she wasn’t going to put me in the picture, so I didn’t bother asking what it was.
“And in our investigations into this group, we also discovered a connection between Bozetti and another company in this country.”
“Bartolome Systems,” I said.
I immediately thought of the picture I’d seen yesterday. Harry Ferguson had been sitting at a table of top Bartolome management at the AGM. I knew Ferguson had helped Cormac McGreely remain invisible for fifteen years, and I was convinced he’d acquired the resources required to cause the two explosions in London a few months ago. Was Ferguson the inside help she was referring to?
“Yes. Some of this is of course confidential to us, and I can’t explain it to you.” She paused for a moment. “But what I can tell you is that one of your members of Parliament was involved in helping us.”
“An MP?” I must have sounded surprised.
“Yes,” she said formally. “We believe he became involved because he was working for the intelligence service in this country.”
“What?” I sat bolt upright so quick my knee bumped the table leg, rattling the cups. I’d not expected to hear this.
“It’s true. I can only tell you a small amount, but this man was very helpful in closing down one of Red Heaven’s operations. His information helped us arrest several of them earlier this year, though the person we most wanted, the mastermind, somehow evaded capture.”
“Who was it who helped you?” Did she really mean Garlinge?
“He’s the man who died two nights ago, Charles Garlinge MP.”
I took a deep breath and sat back in my seat. This was unreal. In the past few days, on the basis of what I’d heard from Armswatch, I’d formed the impression Garlinge was just another crooked businessman lining his own pocket through accepting bribes. But, if Victoria Sacchialli was to be believed, Garlinge was part of an MI5 and Italian security sting operation to disrupt Red Heaven’s source of supply.
It then dawned on me. This would be why Garlinge had said he didn’t want any publicity concerning Bozetti. If what I’d just heard was true, he wouldn’t want it known he’d been working for the security service in the UK. Also, it would explain what Smitherman had meant when he’d said the matter could not reach the public domain, and why national security had been invoked concerning his death. An operation as sensitive as this would be hermetically sealed and buried deep. If Armswatch tried to make it known Garlinge was a corrupt businessman, and gave what it knew to the press, I could see DSMA notices stretching out in a long line to the far horizon.
The contours of this case were changing before my eyes.
Sacchialli watched me bite my lip and look skywards for a few seconds. “The official view we’ve heard says he died of a heart attack, but we don’t believe this.” She shook her head firmly. I was wondering how she could know this so quickly, but she continued. “We believe he was deliberately targeted and killed.” She fixed me with her piercing green eyes. “In our view, it’s quite likely the case he was injected with something to make his death look like a heart attack. Am I almost correct?”
I shrugged. “I’ve not seen the coroner’s report.” It was true; I hadn’t.
“This wouldn’t be the first time someone has died in this way, apparently from natural causes when in fact they were murdered by someone from Red Heaven. Two Italian businessmen have died in similar circumstances in recent years, supposed heart attacks, but each had been injected with something to bring it about. We found later they’d both been helping out Red Heaven, but we don’t know why they’d been killed.”
This confirmed my suspicion Garlinge had been specifically targeted. You can kill someone from some distance away with firearms, but you’d have to be right up close to kill by an injection, making the death more personal. Was revenge the motive for killing Garlinge?
I’d barely thought it before Sacchialli confirmed my suspicion. “Once they found out about Garlinge and his role in the arrests, Red Heaven swore an oath of vengeance on him, and we think one of their operatives in this country could have taken Garlinge out.”
“Really?” I had an uncomfortable feeling. I felt my stomach churning over.
“We think so.” She nodded. “We were told by an informant in Milan that Red Heaven had discovered the role played by Mr Garlinge, and someone was going to be taking him out” – she made inverted commas with her index fingers – “very soon. It would appear this time has now come.”
“How did they even know of Garlinge’s involvement?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged.
“Do you have any idea who this operative might be?” I had a bad feeling as I asked the question. “We can put out a call on the wire if we have a name.”
I tensed up, waiting for her answer.
“At this time, no. We’re waiting to hear from Milan to learn if any active Red Heaven operatives are unaccounted for. Once we know this, your department’ll be informed.”
I’d been expecting her to say Michael Mendoccini, but perhaps Italian security was unaware he was in the country. There was also another possibility. Even if she knew he was in the country, would she keep that from me because she knew Mendoccini and I had been close friends at one time?
There was silence for a f
ew seconds. She sipped her coffee and stared at me.
“So, to answer your original question,” she said, “yes, we know about Bozetti and we’re aware of the situation you mentioned and, when the time is right, we will close their operation down. Not the whole company, of course; just the people involved.”
I finished my coffee.
“Have I helped you in any way?” she asked.
“I think you have, yeah. Thanks.” I left money for the coffees.
I didn’t mention she’d done it by confusing me.
Walking back, I had an uncomfortable thought. Michael Mendoccini was in the country. What if he was here not to acquire arms for Red Heaven, as I’d suspected earlier while listening to Kevin Sharone, but to kill Charles Garlinge? Had he now made the graduation from accounts manipulation and money laundering to being a stone-cold killer? Injecting air into a person knowing it’ll certainly lead to him dying is a cold and calculating act. There’s no ambiguity about intention in this scenario. You could shoot at someone, hit another person and claim it was an accident, but you couldn’t stick a needle into someone and claim you were unaware of what you were doing. This constituted direct intent, first-degree murder. Was Mendoccini now capable of this act? Had he now developed the mindset required for first-degree murder? The thought chilled me.
Italian security apparently wasn’t aware he was in the country, or, if they were, Victoria Sacchialli hadn’t said, and I could truthfully say I’d not met him either.
I was confused.
*
The Neighbourhood Watch operative who’d been on patrol around Garlinge’s estate last Saturday evening had reported his list of person and car movements to Herts police. Because Garlinge’s house was located on an estate outside town, with only one main road in or out, movements were relatively easy to keep track of. Several people had been seen walking dogs around early to mid-evening, and there’d been a few strangers, but they had been identified as guests of residents and all had been accounted for. There was a list of registration numbers from cars parked in the road, and they checked out.
The Real World- the Point of Death Page 19
