“Why do you need to see me for the third time? If this’s about what was said by that Labour MP earlier, the company isn’t making any official comment until after the board’s had the chance to discuss the matter, which won’t be for a day or so yet.” He shook his head. “Ian being found dead earlier today, and now this . . .”
“Yeah, it was me who found him as well, but, no, it’s not about that. I was just wondering how well you know Graeme Ownsley, the Labour MP who made the statement in the House.” I’d decided to come straight out with why I was there.
“How well? I don’t know him at all.” He sounded indignant the question had even been asked.
“Oh, really? So why’d you call him yesterday evening?”
Sir Paul looked a little flustered at hearing this. I waited a few seconds for him to reply. He didn’t, so I continued.
“He was called last night on his mobile from a number registered to this address.” As I was speaking I noticed his landline phone, on the sideboard. “This’d suggest you do know him, or do you make a habit of calling up random Labour MPs for a chat?”
He looked like he’d been caught taking money from a charity shop collection box. He stood up, walked across to the small settee opposite the television and sat. I followed and stood by the small armchair across from him.
He looked down at the carpet, took several deep breaths and sighed. He looked up at me like I was here to escort him to the gallows. But after a few moments his facial expression changed. He pursed his lips and nodded to himself and his face took on an almost beatific smile, like a revelation had suddenly dawned on him. His whole demeanour and body language subtly changed. He looked relaxed and sat back in his chair, nodding at me.
“You know what, it’s all going to come out sooner or later.” He was still smiling. “Let’s make it sooner, shall we? You’re right, I did call Graeme Ownsley last evening.”
“We know this, but, first off, why him? How did he come to be contacted?”
“Because his was the name I was given.”
“Who by?” I was curious.
“Nick Graves.”
“Pardon?” This wasn’t making sense. “Nick Graves? Nick Graves of Armswatch?”
“Nick Graves,” he repeated calmly. “I met with him yesterday, and I asked him if he could give me the name of a Labour MP he absolutely trusted. He gave me Ownsley’s name.”
Sir Paul met with Nick Graves? He was looking oddly satisfied at this revelation.
“So, when I spoke to you earlier today . . .”
He looked at me, still smiling and nodding. He’d known what was about to happen.
“Why’d you meet him?” I asked.
“Because I wanted someone who’d be prepared to stand up in the House and ask a few questions,” he said, firmly, “and Graves assured me Ownsley was the man I was looking for. Graves got someone to take a message to Ownsley, asking him if he would be prepared to ask a couple of controversial questions in the House, and he said he’d be delighted. So Graves gave me Ownsley’s number and I phoned him last night.” He sat back in his seat and stared at me, his expression now neutral, like he’d just said it was getting dark outside.
“What did you tell him?”
“I simply mentioned a few things, which he was absolutely delighted to hear, and I told him what I’d like him to ask. He said he’d bring it up in the House today. True to his word, he did what I’d asked, and . . .” He shrugged, looking pleased.
So he’d primed Ownsley, pointed him in the right direction, and Ownsley, who was no friend of the arms trade, had done what had been asked of him. I was now in the position where, as Winston Smith had once said to his interrogator O’Brien, I understood how, but I didn’t understand why.
“You’re aware, aren’t you, Armswatch was injuncted in the High Court yesterday?” I asked. “I was under the impression the injunction was to prevent Armswatch making known what it claims to have in its possession about Bartolome, which included details I wouldn’t have thought you’d want known about your company. Also, there could be possible issues relating to national security, which was partly why the injunction was granted. You could face prosecution for contempt of court for doing this. Does all this not bother you?”
He didn’t respond for a long moment. He looked wistfully out the window at the night-time sky, nodding to himself. A man of his intelligence would have had to know the phone call to Ownsley would be traced back to him. He would also be aware of the controversy surrounding Ownsley’s statement in the House, linking an MP and a UK company to a massacre in Africa, and in particular that it would cause the media to clamour for a response from the company, either confirming or refuting the comment. He would no doubt be aware the more serious newspapers would not only be reporting this in depth tomorrow; they’d also be looking more closely into what had been said and why, and Armswatch would be ideally positioned as the injunction was now of no legal validity.
Why had he done this? What did Sir Paul have to gain by what’d he’d admitted to doing? I was about to ask him this when he spoke again.
“I knew about the injunction; of course I did,” he eventually said, slowly nodding, “But I thought it important this matter should be aired publicly.” He paused. “Which is why I sent all the information Armswatch has about Bartolome Systems to Graves a few weeks ago.”
I was initially slow on the uptake but, after a couple of seconds, the reality of what he’d said appeared before my eyes. Sir Paul was admitting to being the source of the material Armswatch was in possession of.
I felt as though I was standing at the entrance to a maze.
“You leaked the information to Armswatch?” I tried to keep the incredulity from my voice. “You sent Armswatch those documents?”
“I did indeed,” he said firmly, looking pleased with himself. “Why’d you think they’re as specific as they are? Why’d you think they contain all the relevant details about who got paid how much, plus the minutes of the board meetings where these items were discussed? It was because I knew exactly what Armswatch would be interested in. In their position, I’d know exactly what I’d want to see, so that’s what I gave them.”
He sat back, warming to his topic and looking as though a weight had been taken off his shoulders. I’d been expecting blanket denials, a refusal to talk, even accusations of police harassment and threats about all kinds of legal recriminations. Instead, I was getting a voluntary mea culpa. This I’d not been expecting.
“Nick Graves nearly fell from his seat when I met with him yesterday.” He smiled directly at me, almost daring me to disbelieve him.
“You really met with him?”
“Oh yes,” he casually replied. “I went to see him because he’d been injuncted and couldn’t publicise what they’d been sent. I’d found out he usually went to lunch sometime around one and he frequented the Pret a Manger on Victoria Street, so I went there. I just walked in and sat down at the same table and he nearly choked on his sandwich when he saw me.” He smiled. “I mean, I knew he’d recognise me. I told him who I was and said he and Armswatch were in receipt of information sent to him from Bartolome. Initially he denied it all. I was expecting no less, I expected him to be defensive about the matter, so I handed him a list of everything he’d received, including the page numbers of the minutes and headings of accounts pages. It listed dates, names and figures. This soon shut him up.” His grin broadened.
“Actually, do you mind?” he politely asked as he rose from his seat. He then crossed the room, opened a sideboard cabinet and took out a bottle and a glass. He looked at me as he held a second glass and gestured to ask if I wanted a drink. I shook my head. He poured himself a Smirnoff vodka, added a squirt of tonic water and sat down on the couch.
“Now, where was I?” He took a sip of his drink. “Oh yes, Graves. Well, after he’d got his breath back, Graves asked why I was there. He was a little on edge, initially. I think he was expecting me to rant and rave, threaten to unmuz
zle the legal dogs of war if the information wasn’t returned. So he was probably quite bemused when I said, Oh, no, quite the contrary in fact. I want you to make this information public; that’s why I sent it to you, but, because he was now injuncted, I wanted the name of someone who’d be prepared to stand up in Parliament and raise the matter. I think at first he thought I was joking, but after a few minutes I’d assured him I was indeed very serious.”
I was trying to imagine a lunchtime meeting between Sir Paul and Graves, especially when Graves was having such an offer handed to him on a plate. He must have thought it was Christmas all over again. “So what happened then?”
“Once he realised I was in fact serious, he immediately gave me Graeme Ownsley’s name. He then sent a text to someone asking them to go talk to Ownsley and ask if he’d be prepared to do this. Ownsley apparently agreed unhesitatingly, so he was told to expect my call last night. I called and told him what I wanted him to say.”
“And he agreed.” I was stating the obvious.
“Delighted to help,” he said with satisfaction in his eye, “and the matter’s now out in the public domain, which is where I’d wanted it to begin with. I can’t tell you how happy I was when I heard Ownsley had stood up in the House.” His smile was like a torch in the dark.
He paused for a moment to sip his drink. “I was actually expecting Armswatch to make the matter public within a couple of days of receiving my information. I mean, I knew they’d check to ensure it was bona fide beforehand, but instead of publishing and making a stink, they decide to contact Charles and try to get him to stand down as an MP.” He sounded disappointed. “So, when the High Court granted the injunction, I knew I’d have to do something drastic if I wanted this information made public.” He looked me in the eyes, still smiling. “And it would appear I’ve succeeded.”
It was almost perfect. Classified material leaked to Armswatch, and few, if any, would suspect the managing director and chief executive, a career company man, a pillar of the defence establishment, of being the source. It was a safe bet Garlinge wouldn’t have suspected Sir Paul, a fully paid-up scion of the political-military establishment, of being the source of the leak; neither would Thornwyn, who’d named Ian Harper as a potential source.
I sat back in the chair and thought over what I’d heard. I would need to know why he’d wanted this matter made public, but, first, I wanted to confirm something else.
“I’ve a source who’s told me Garlinge was working for the security service when Bartolome negotiated the contract with Bozetti. Is this why Harry Ferguson was at your AGM?”
He drained his glass whilst I spoke and then crossed over to the sideboard and poured himself another drink, a much larger one this time. He held up the bottle and looked enquiringly at me. Again I shook my head. He put tonic water and two small ice cubes in his drink and sat back down, looking pensive and casually swirling the contents of the glass around. He then looked up at me.
“The world’s changed unbelievably these past few decades, detective,” he said slowly, like he was considering every word before it was said. “You, you’re only a young man. What are you, early thirties?”
I agreed I was.
“When I was your age, nearly forty years ago now,” he said, with a sage nod, “the world was a vastly different place to what it is today. If your generation were transported back to the early, mid-seventies, you wouldn’t recognise the landscape. You’d be lost. No social media, no laptops, no instant communications, no internet, no mobile phones, no broadband, no information superhighway, no CCTV, no data profiling, no satellite TV and only three terrestrial channels, Channel Four finally kicking in in 1982, and the age of high-tech modern technology still over a decade away. Margaret Thatcher had only just become leader of the Tory party, for heaven’s sake, and OPEC in the mid-seventies was more powerful than any nation on earth. The Cold War was still raging, and the two major superpowers had enough nuclear capacity to blow the world to pieces several times over, but despite all the posturing and the aggressive rhetoric from both sides, the doctrine of MAD, mutually assured destruction, kept the peace.”
He took a sip of his drink, looking relaxed. “But then, in the late eighties, things began to change, quite rapidly in fact. The Berlin Wall came down, communism collapsed, the Soviet Union disintegrated and there was a thaw in the Cold War. There was the drama in Tiananmen Square in 1989 and suddenly all the old verities changed, almost overnight, and the nature of terrorism also changed. Suddenly you had nations acting like terrorist states, like North Yemen and North Korea and, depending on whether you believe Palestinians should be entitled to have their homeland back or not, Israel as well, rather than just groups of fanatics like Black September, the Red Army Faction and Baader-Meinhof claiming to want liberation or whatever it was they were blowing people up for.”
It was like talking to Harry Ferguson again, but this was all interesting stuff, so I listened intently to what he was saying.
“For us at Bartolome, however, the picture became ever more complicated. At one time, back when I joined the company, we just manufactured weapons and we sold them here to the UK government. But, as times and circumstances changed, we expanded to selling abroad, and it was then that Bartolome became an adjunct of the Ministry of Defence.”
“Meaning what?” I interrupted him.
“Meaning, gradually, companies like ours became an arm of Government policy. I mean, there’ve always been links between armaments firms and government, but as political realities changed and governments became more suspicious of each other, even inside the military and economic trading blocs they belonged to, and the stakes rose ever higher, we began to be used more and more by our government to spy on other companies and government officials elsewhere. We were asked to provide quite detailed information to UK government departments which was going to be used to help formulate Government’s response to whatever a perceived situation was. Supplying arms became almost a branch of power politics, if you like. This is where Charles comes into the picture.”
He was silent for several seconds.
“How?” I prompted him.
“Oh, he was fascinated by all this political intrigue, and he was always keen to be involved when someone from the security service came to talk to senior management at the company about delicate negotiations with overseas buyers, or whether we should or shouldn’t do business with a particular firm or country. This’s actually part of the reason why he became an MP; he wanted to be involved in intelligence matters, but from the political side of the table. His ambition was to become Home Secretary and be the political head of MI5. Did you know he was encouraged by MI5 to stand as Tory candidate in Hemel Hempstead after Paul Sampson died?”
I shook my head. I did some quick thinking and put two and two together. “This’d be how he came into contact with Harry Ferguson, wouldn’t it?”
“Correct.” He nodded firmly. “It was Ferguson who encouraged him to put his name forward for the seat. I read the clear implication as being, his name goes forward, he’ll get the nod to be the candidate, though I don’t know how this was arranged. Whatever the case, he and Charles struck up quite the rapport and they become good friends. But, not long after this, Ferguson was retired on grounds of ill health.”
I briefly wondered what else Ferguson had been involved in with Garlinge.
“You mentioned Bozetti when we spoke Sunday morning,” Sir Paul said, “so I’m assuming you know what happened in this case.”
I indicated I did.
“When the contract to supply Bozetti was being negotiated, we were approached by an MI6 officer who’d heard about it. Evidently, there was some kind of operation in place to assist the Italians in tracking down some leading figures inside Red Heaven, and they wanted the company’s help in the matter, but it all ended up going so terribly wrong.” He sighed sadly, shaking his head.
Victoria Sacchialli had said as much yesterday. “How so?”
“When we
were offered the chance to work with Bozetti, I naïvely thought it was a great marketing opportunity for the company. Getting a bigger foothold in the Italian market was something with potential long-term business spin-offs, so we went for it. Just after this, we were approached by the officer from MI6. This was normal; as I mentioned earlier today, there’re always security issues with arms sales, even to friendly nations. But this MI6 person told us about some convoluted plan which would involve them working alongside the Italian security service, the AISE, and helping the Italians to capture Red Heaven personnel.” He paused to sip his drink. “We were expected simply to go along with what MI6 wanted us to do, supply weapons, as per the agreement, and then their operation was going to be put into effect. How it was all going to work, or even what the plan was, I’ve no real idea; I wasn’t involved in those discussions. Charles was, and he was briefed by MI6 as to what they wanted him to do. They had something specific for him, but again I wasn’t privy to all the details.”
He was looking contemplative, nodding to himself. I waited.
“Bozetti had even received another tender from a smaller company, Fairfields, and their bid was lower than ours. Financially, it’d make sense for Bozetti to use Fairfields, so MI6 had to get involved to prevent this from happening.”
“Why’d they do this?”
“Apparently, MI6 wanted Garlinge; he was an integral part of the plan I just mentioned. So they contacted Fairfields, told them it’s in the national interest they withdraw their bid to contract with Bozetti. They agreed. The cover story was put about they’d been asked to pay bribes; they hadn’t been. They were simply asked to withdraw. MI6 played the patriotic card, and the company complied.”
I thought about how the deal had ended up. “And I’m guessing the plan didn’t work,” I ventured to suggest.
“I’m sorry to say Charles became venal.” He nodded sadly. “He was offered a rather large sum by Ibrahim Mohammed to look the other way, for want of a better expression. A man we’ve done business with, and a man I thought we could trust, but one who I was later told had made a separate agreement with another body which saw the weapons being diverted to Burundi. And we all know what happened next, don’t we?”
The Real World- the Point of Death Page 25
