Blackmail North

by Philip McCutchan

  Bunnigan removed his cigar and waved it in the air as though drying off its spittle-soaked end. “A pressman never reveals his sources, Mr Shard, you know that.”

  “Maybe not a genuine pressman on a paper. You don’t fit that category, the category that has to have a court of law enforce its revelations. Let’s make a start this way: tell me what you know, what you’d sell to whoever wanted it.”

  “Presswise?”

  “Presswise.”

  The cigar was replaced. “You payin’?”

  “No. But you’re telling. Here or in the nick. Take your choice, it’s all yours.”

  “Huh.” Bunnigan scowled, seemed irresolute. There was a pause while he reflected upon his position. Shard had a feeling he was honest enough and didn’t want to come up against the police. Shard wished he would hurry; Shiela Branscombe’s scent was fighting a losing battle against Knackers Bunnigan’s non-use of deodorant — London was really very hot indeed. Bunnigan stubbed out his cigar, belched once more, and lit a fresh one.

  “So okay,” he said. “Okay! Not that I know much except this guy Mackintosh was brought in from Libya, was third degree’d and then got hooked off from near Biggin Hill. All this, you’ll know.”

  “Right. What else?”

  “Well, gee, I know what his job was, I know his background.”

  “Any more, Mr Bunnigan?”

  “No, I guess not.” Bunnigan threw up his hands in a deep, deep shrug. “I saw a story in it, what’s wrong with that? An oil man captured by the Arabs in Israel gets handed back to Britain! That interests the public, right?”

  “I’m sure it does. What strikes me as odd is that you know he’s back in Britain. That was supposed to be top secret.”

  “Well, it leaked, didn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Shard said, “and now I want to know where and how and who you got it from. So start telling me.”

  Bunnigan shifted in his chair. “Gee whiz, that’d be so damn unprofessional, so unethical —”

  “Big words, Mr Bunnigan. Why let words stand between you and a real going over at the nick?”

  *

  It took time and a promise of police protection on his person and premises: this given, Knackers Bunnigan talked. He’d had a telephone call the day before asking him to meet a man on a bench by the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens. He’d gone along as directed and made his contact, all very cloak-and-dagger: the man wore a blue sweat-shirt inscribed UNITED STATES NAVAL ACADEMY ANNAPOLIS around the badge of that establishment and he was accompanied by an elderly spaniel. Knackers Bunnigan, who was apparently known by sight, had needed no identification. The man, Bunnigan believed, was a Scot. He had passed the information as given, and had said he would be in touch again by phone if anything more became available.

  “Why didn’t he pass the first lot by phone?”

  “Taps,” Bunnigan said briefly. “Also, as a pressman, I like to take a look at informants before I send any stuff out, right?”

  “You told him that?”

  “Sure. When he called me.”

  “His name?”

  “Didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.”

  “But he’ll be in contact again,” Shard murmured. “Now, why did he tell you all this? Why did he want it broadcast? Any ideas, Mr Bunnigan?”

  “No, I guess not. I don’t kinda worry about havin’ ideas, I just collect nooze like I said.”

  Shard swept a glance over him; the face, true enough, didn’t look like that of an ideas man. Knackers Bunnigan had very likely told all he knew. Shard said, “All right, that satisfies me for now. Keep your nose clean, Mr Bunnigan. Like your contact, I’ll be in touch. And if he gets in touch I want you to let me know.”

  “He won’t lead you anywhere, you know that? There’ll be cut-outs, right?”

  Shard smiled acidly. “You know the jargon, Mr Bunnigan.” Bunnigan was right, of course; no intelligence service ever operated without making very sure one contact never led to another. The network had to remain inviolate. Shard reached out for a clean sheet of paper and scribbled an ex-directory number, one of many that would get the Foreign Office Security section: this particular number rang a phone which, when it burred, told Shard’s staff that they did not, repeat not, mention the Foreign Office by word or inference. “That’ll get me. You don’t breathe a word of this, I need hardly add. Understood?”

  “Sure,” Bunnigan said. “I’m a good boy, you know that? I stay inside the law.”

  “Fine! There’s just one other thing: tonight, I want to take Mrs Branscombe out to dinner. Do you mind, Mr Bunnigan?”

  Bunnigan waved a hand. “Help yourself.”

  “Mrs Branscombe?”

  She smiled at him. “You haven’t asked if there’s a Mr Branscombe, but as it happens there’s not. We parted company. I’d love to.”

  “Strictly business,” Shard said. “There’s a Mrs Shard.” He looked at his watch: the afternoon was wearing on. “Be in the lounge of Martinez’ in Swallow Street at six-thirty.”

  *

  Going, somewhat delayed, to his Seddon’s Way office for a personal check through his microdot filing system — though without real hope — Shard’s mind nagged away at the whys and wherefores. Bunnigan’s contact — someone who wanted an indirect line to Shard, knowing that he would investigate any leak? Someone who wanted Shard to come in personally, and deliver himself up to the enemy? But there would be less cumbersome methods for doing that, one would have thought. Some disillusioned Scot, then, in cahoots with another Arab country, a country that wanted to queer the pitch for something Libya wanted to achieve? OPEC wasn’t a very united brotherhood, not even when the vast sums of oil money were at stake. Other considerations came into the relationship: national prejudices, a love of intrigue, the curious ins and outs of Middle Eastern politics with Russia always looming as the background menace how ever much she might pose as a friend. But maybe that was too fanciful. Going through the files and finding nothing of interest, nothing that fitted the thugs in the birks of Aberfeldy, Shard was interrupted by the soft burr of his security line.

  “Shard.”

  “Hesseltine. News, Simon — not much, I’m afraid. The hijack car’s been found, the fake police car that hooked Mackintosh away from Major Harcourt.”

  “Where, sir?”

  “Abandoned in an empty garage, premises that shut down some months back, in Harrogate —”

  “Harrogate? They were lucky to get that far without being picked up!”

  “The car,” Hesseltine said, “had been ramped up into a pantechnicon.” He paused. “It’s Uthman territory, but not a lot of help in point of fact. North Yorks police report no prints, everything wiped clean, no number plates on the pantechnicon, false name painted on it. Et cetera — a conscientious job. I just thought I’d let you know.”

  “Thanks! Nothing else, sir?”

  “Not a damn thing. They’ve gone to ground well and truly.” Hesseltine rang off and Shard sat back thoughtfully. Gone to ground was an understatement, they’d bloody vanished! The police cover was wide, very wide and one would have thought they must show, but no. Mrs Mackintosh had been hooked in the north, her husband in the south. Maybe they’d joined up after all, maybe it was not a case of rival factions … but it was all conjecture with nothing, just nothing, certain. Shard tapped a biro against his teeth, frowning. Harrogate … Yorkshire again: Uthman had last been heard of in Leeds. More than coincidence? Could be. Yorkshire was a big place, taken as the one main county it had once been, a vast area of moorland and dale when you were clear of the big industrial conurbations, a huge extent of wild country where you could lose yourself for a long time if you wanted to and were careful.

  *

  “Sherry?”

  “Whisky, thanks.”

  “In Martinez’?” Shard grinned. “Sacrilege! But I’ll have the same.” He gave the order to the waiter, a brown-skinned, dark-eyed man with the look of Andalusia about him who had stared with concern at Sha
rd’s many bandages. Shard and Sheila Branscombe had taken a table deep in a corner where they could talk, surrounded only by the Spanish tiles on the walls. There was a feeling of intimacy and Shard wondered what would be the result if Mrs Micklem should happen to drop in for a quick one after some West End shopping, not, thank God, that she was likely to. Sheila Branscombe had done something seductive to herself, and Shard was duly seduced: the girl exuded sex.

  When the waiter had come back with the drinks and then gone again, she looked at Shard quizzically and asked, “Well, here starts business, as you said earlier on. What’s it all about?”

  “Targets, magnets and cheese. Cheese to attract the mouse.”

  “I think I get you,” she said. “I’m the cheese, you’re the trap?”

  “Let’s stick to my word — magnet. I’m not trapping anyone, not yet that is.” He drank whisky. “I want to be seen with you. That just might start a ball rolling, somewhere.”

  “You mean it’ll get around that Knackers Bunnigan talked?”

  “Something like that.”

  “He’ll get done over, you know.”

  “That’s being watched — I keep my promises.” Shard grimaced. “Knackers … not an attractive sobriquet, is it? How did he acquire that?”

  “Sheer zeal.”

  “Has he tried it on you?”

  She nodded. “Has he not! Nothing doing — he knows that now. It was a tiresome business, letting him know for sure, but I made my point.”

  “I’m sorry for him. Is he honest?”

  She said, frowning, “I think I’d say so, yes, by his own standards anyway. Not so much honest as prudent. He knows what he can get away with and he doesn’t go beyond the limit. In a way, he’s rather sweet … simply because he’s so awful and doesn’t know it.”

  “The accent intrigues me. And the gee whizzes. Not many Americans really talk like that. I take it he is an American?”

  “Yank through and through. Brooklyn exaggerated for business reasons. He thinks the British regard the Yanks as super-efficient, real go-getters, the boys that bring home the bacon.” She added. “I gather from things he’s let drop that he didn’t quite make it in the States, so came over here as a big treat for London.”

  “And hasn’t quite made it here either — wouldn’t you say?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. He keeps busy. Or manages to look it, anyway.”

  Shard drank more whisky and mused: Bunnigan wasn’t big time, Bunnigan was on the fringe of the news business, so why choose him as a bridge, if that was the idea, to Shard? Maybe just because he was a fringe agency? The establishment boys of the news agency world might well have reacted differently. Over his glass, Shard watched the customers: he and the girl had arrived early and the place had been almost empty; now it was filling up. It was as cosmopolitan as anywhere else in London, but in here the tourists had been weeded out, the kiss-me-quick hats, the chewing-gum and the iced lollies had gravitated elsewhere. What was left had a more well-lined look and wore coats and ties. No-one was paying attention to Shard and Sheila Branscombe and Shard’s experienced eye didn’t spot anything that had the villain look. Chatting to the girl about nothing in particular, he had the glasses refilled and when they were empty again he escorted her upstairs for dinner. For soup Shard ordered gaspacho, nicely chilled, following this with buevos flamenco, the egg and tomato sizzling in a hot dish, then langoustina ensalada. The succulence of the crayfish seemed to call in advance for a bottle of Château Laville Haut-Brion, a fine Bordeaux; and it was while he was tasting this that Shard saw the man coming up the stairs, alone, and approaching the head waiter for a table. He’d done something, had done quite a lot in fact, to his appearance, and he was not whistling. Dark hair could be made temporarily grey by clever use of powder and there were such things as false moustaches that changed faces dramatically, but neither the innate cockiness nor the strutting walk could be disguised. Shard showed no reaction as the Scotsman followed the head waiter across the restaurant: the Scotsman was keeping his eyes open without making it too obvious, but he hadn’t seen Shard. Maybe he wasn’t looking for him, but the coincidence of his presence was unacceptable: Shard, acting as the magnet, had clearly attracted a tail as intended, and the tail had summoned the Scotsman.

  The cocky man passed out of Shard’s sight, somewhere behind his back now. Shard leaned forward. “That man who’s just come in alone. Don’t be too deliberate. Short, grey hair, moustache, dark suit. Behind me. Got him?”

  “Got him.”

  “Keep an eye open. Nice weather we’re having.”

  “Too hot.” She’d got the hint. She waffled nicely. “I burn too easily. That or freckles.”

  “I like freckles.”

  She grinned. “They turn you on?”

  “Right, they do.”

  “Don’t get over excited. If I can deal with Knackers, I can deal with you. He’s ordering.”

  “And flashing glances around?”

  “Discreetly.”

  “Seen him before?”

  She shook her head: the lamplight made the hair seem like rich moving gold. “Not that I remember. Who is he?”

  “I don’t know. I want to find out.”

  “Does he know you?”

  “Yes.”

  She lifted an eyebrow. “Isn’t he taking a risk? I mean if he’s a, what’s your word, villain —”

  “A risk, but he fancies he’s covered it by a bit of kid’s disguise. Leave it, Sheila. Just keep talking of other things.”

  She played up; the langoustina ensalada came. Shard ate without appreciation. The man over there behind him could have been the one who had planted the car bomb and killed an innocent copper: for his money it was either him or one of the three who had been bringing Fiona Mackintosh down the birks, only yesterday. As Sheila had said — a risk, to be quite so close to a missed victim. That was true even if the man himself had calculated that the risk was small … so why? Something had now to be forced into the open, but not right here in Martinez’ restaurant.

  “Eat up,” Shard said. “Fast but not too fast. There won’t be any sweet and you don’t like cheese either. And coffee keeps you awake at night.”

  “It’s not late.”

  “Not in that sense, no. But you get the idea.” Shard fed crayfish into his mouth, reducing the plateload. Between mouthfuls he said, “Do something for me when you finish eating. You look as though you can cope.”

  “Go on.”

  “Use the phone downstairs. Call my section at the FO — I’ll write the number, you burn it immediately after. Tell whoever’s there I want a plain car, two men both armed, to be in Regent Street handy for the entrance to Swallow Street in ten minutes from when your call’s timed. Another in Piccadilly at the other end of Swallow-Street. Watch for me and tail. All right?”

  “All right. Then do I come back up?”

  He shook his head. “You do not. You go to the ladies and you stay locked in for half an hour and don’t worry about queues. Then you go home.” He added, “Give my section your address and say I want it covered. They’ll do the rest. How long’ll you be finishing that crayfish?”

  “Give me three minutes. Is there that much rush?”

  He said, “I don’t know.” He was remembering Hedge’s cliché: it’s always later than you think.

  He signalled for the waiter.

  Five

  HEDGE, PINK AND flabby in his bath, gave an exclamation of annoyance: the soap had gone. He was already behind schedule for an important dinner in the City. Triumphantly he contacted the Pears’ Original but, as his fist squeezed, the damn thing shot away again and at the same moment his telephone began ringing beside the bath: one of the luxuries, however mixed a blessing, of high office, was a closed line to his bathroom.

  Hedge surged up through the soapy water and grasped the handset. “Hedge. Who is it?” He listened, gasped, sat up further, respectfully. “Yes, Sir Egerton. As a matter of fact I’m in the bath. A
dinner … oh yes, of course, Under Secretary, most certainly. At once. Er … I wonder if I may ask —” There was a click in his ear: he had sometimes fancied that the Under-Secretary of State disliked him, but there was no need for rudeness. Hedge glowered, gave up the soap search, and stepped out of the bath, wrapping a purple towel around his stomach. He opened the door and called to his wife.

  “I’m sorry, the dinner’s off. I’ve just been contacted by the Under-Secretary himself. You’d better telephone my apologies …”

  *

  In the Under-Secretary’s room Hedge felt unready, almost as though he’d forgotten to put his trousers on: the Foreign Office driver had rung his bell before he had finished dressing and beautifying; and Hedge, when feeling flustered and improperly turned out, was never at his best.

  “I understand your Head of Department’s on leave, Hedge. He’s being recalled, but until he gets back you’ll have to carry the weight.”

  “Yes, Under-Secretary.” Hedge shook slightly: the Head of Security was holidaying in Fiji, which was a long way off.

  “Hesseltine of the Yard can be brought in, and you’ll find him invaluable.”

  “Yes, Under-Secretary.” Hesseltine was a boor, but might prove a tower of strength yet. “Er … may I now ask —”

  “You may.” Sir Egerton Mornay spoke crisply; he was a crisp man, direct, incisive, efficient. Currently, though not exactly showing anxiety, he was concerned with something of obvious moment and Hedge felt he was about to be pushed to the limit in his capacity as acting Head of Security. “This man Mackintosh — you know who I mean — the Scottish Office has been making angry noises. So has the Department of the Environment. And so, now, has the Prime Minister. I’ve been at Downing Street. What are you doing about him?”

  “All that can be done, Sir Egerton.”

  “Which is?”

  Hedge spread his hands and began to sweat. “I have my senior man on it personally. There’s full police co-operation throughout the whole country. No stone is being left …” Hedge coloured: the Under-Secretary’s scowl was unnerving. “I assure you we have a full awareness of the man’s importance, Sir Egerton.”