by Bob Cook
“Mr Croft and Mr Beauchamp. They and Mr Buchanan are my co-authors.”
“Four of you?”
“That’s right,” Ogden said. “I’m not much of a wordsmith, you see.”
“I understand,” Miss Chambers said. “Men of action are seldom also men of words. Well, gentlemen, I think we have a winner here. Of course, the legal situation being what it is in this country, I don’t think we shall find a British publisher. But I’m sure the Americans will be most impressed. And then there is the matter of paperbacks, translation, newspaper-serialisation rights—”
“Yes indeed,” said the Laird. “We wanted to discuss that. You see, we have something a little different in mind.”
“Oh?”
“We’d like the memoirs to be serialised before the book is published.”
Miss Chambers tilted her head to one side and squinted.
“Why?”
“Well, we still haven’t decided how much to write. There could be enough material for several volumes—we just don’t know yet. So if we keep on producing the stuff in instalments, for publication in serial form—”
“You could publish collections every year or so.”
“Precisely,” Ogden said. “Can that be done?”
“I don’t see why not,” Miss Chambers said. “Leave it with me, and I’ll see what can be arranged.”
“Splendid,” said the Vicar.
“I do have one small query,” Miss Chambers said. “It’s quite silly, really, but…”
“Fire away,” Ogden said.
“I’ve read quite a few books on this general subject over the years. But I’ve never come across any of the names you mention: this Akhmatov fellow, for instance. And some of the organisations you name…well, they’re entirely new to me. Why do you suppose I’ve never heard of them?”
Ogden smiled knowingly.
“That,” he said, “gives you some idea of the level of secrecy I used to work in. This isn’t your standard kiss-and-tell tittle-tattle, Miss Chambers. This stuff is redhot, even after thirty-five years.”
“My word!” Miss Chambers gasped.
“You can take it from us,” Beauchamp added, “we’re taking a hell of a risk publishing this material.”
Miss Chambers brought her hands together and gasped. “Gosh,” she breathed. “How terribly exciting.”
Chapter Six
IT WAS ONE O’CLOCK in the morning, and Paris was beginning to quieten down. There was still traffic on the streets, but the pavements were almost deserted. The man crossed over the Pont Neuf, casting an indifferent glance towards the Conciergerie and Notre-Dame as he did so. Down below, the river Seine shimmered like a long, cold, oil slick.
As he arrived on the Left Bank, the man stopped and looked down at the river-path. It was too dark to make anything out. He found a flight of stone steps and he descended it slowly, allowing his eyes to adjust to the gloom. By the time he reached the river-path, he could see clearly enough to be sure that he was alone. The man lit a cigarette and waited.
About ten minutes later, another figure came down the steps, and stopped at the bottom. The man approached him slowly, and said, “My name’s Hopkins. Are you the guy who called?”
The other man nodded, and said nothing.
“I’m glad you rang,” Hopkins said. “I was planning to leave Paris tomorrow. To be honest, I’ve not had much luck with my inquiries. So, what have you got for me?”
The man did not reply. Suddenly, and without warning, the darkness was lit up by a dazzling white light. A bateau mouche, one of the Seine’s sightseeing boats, swept past. Both men stood still until it had vanished, and darkness returned.
“Look,” Hopkins said, “I’m not the police. I promise anything you tell me will be in confidence. What do you know about Lemiers?”
The other man spoke in a whisper: “You shall seek those who contend with you, but you shall not find them.”
“What does that mean? I know Lemiers has vanished, if that’s what you’re saying. Do you know where he is?”
The other man laughed quietly.
“All right,” Hopkins said, “if it makes it easier for you, I’m willing to pay for anything you can tell me. How does that sound?”
The other man seemed to find this even more amusing.
“A soft tongue will break a bone,” he chuckled.
Hopkins frowned.
“I’m not here to play games,” he said. “You called me, remember. You sounded pretty anxious to talk. What’s changed your mind?”
The other man sighed bitterly.
“I see that thou art in the gall of bitterness and in the bond of iniquity,” he said.
Hopkins’ shoulders sagged wearily.
“That’s all I need,” he complained. “A crank. Well, if you don’t mind, I’ll be moving on. It’s been a long day.”
He began to walk away, but the other man grabbed his sleeve. Hopkins turned round, and caught the full force of the man’s fist as it ploughed into his crotch. He sank to the ground, and the other man drove his knee into Hopkins’ face.
“Stop it, please,” Hopkins gasped. “Look, I don’t know who you are, but you’re making a mistake. I’m just working for someone—”
“A servant?”
“Yes,” Hopkins said. “I’m just—”
The man took hold of Hopkins’ hair and pulled his head back. Then, with one movement, he brought his elbow down onto Hopkins’ throat. Hopkins fell limply back onto the ground. Without pausing, the other man took out a length of cord and tied together Hopkins’ hands and feet. He then rolled the body over to the edge of the path.
“Cast the worthless servant into the outer darkness,” the other man quoted. “There men will weep and gnash their teeth.”
With one sharp kick, the body was sent spinning into the Seine. The man watched contentedly as it slowly vanished into the inky water.
Chapter Seven
MISS CHAMBERS’ EXCITEMENT quickly circulated among her contacts, and within weeks she had organised precisely the sort of serialisation deal her clients had requested. An American newspaper called the Baltimore Bugle offered an impressive sum for the right to publish and syndicate the memoirs in twice-weekly installments.
The editor and proprietor of the Bugle, a Mr Cyrus X. Stompfweiner III, was deeply impressed by Clive Ogden’s curriculum vitae. He telephoned the old spy to offer him his congratulations on “such a distinguished and heroic career devoted to the preservation of our great system of individual liberty and free enterprise.”
“My gosh,” Ogden replied. “Can’t say I ever thought of it in those terms.”
“You didn’t?” Mr Stompfweiner said.
“Well,” Ogden said quickly, “I suppose I just took all that kind of thing for granted.”
“Sure you did,” Mr Stompfweiner chuckled. “Anyway, Mr Ogden—can I call you Clive?”
“By all means,” Ogden said graciously.
“Clive, I can only add that I consider it a privilege to be the first to bring your spectacular career to the world’s attention. You’re an unsung hero, Clive, and I will be the first to sing your song—”
“Jolly good,” Ogden grinned.
“A Galahad in the fight against the Red Menace—”
“Good Lord—I mean, do you really think so?”
“I certainly do, Clive. And I tell you this: I would consider it an even greater privilege if at some stage you and I could actually meet and shake hands and—what was that?”
Mr Stompfweiner’s oration had been interrupted by a loud pop as one of Ogden’s gum-bubbles accidentally burst by the telephone mouthpiece. Ogden did not know what Mr Stompfweiner would make of a Galahad who chewed bubble-gum, but this was not the time to find out.
“Er—interference on the line,” Ogden said hastily.
“Yeah? Well, Clive, am I right in hoping that at some stage we can meet over here, and maybe—”
“I don’t see why not,” Ogden said. �
��We could have a good chin-wag about the—um—Red Menace—what?”
“Just what I had in mind, Clive. Well, I’m sure you’re a busy man, so I won’t keep you any longer. Congratulations, Clive. You have my sincere respect.”
“Thank you,” Ogden smirked. “Cheerio.”
He put the phone down and chuckled in satisfaction. “Galahad, eh? How delightful.”
Meanwhile, a hundred miles away at the Government Communications Headquarters in Cheltenham, a technician switched off a tape recorder, and looked up at his colleague, who was standing by a computer terminal.
“Dear oh dear,” he grinned. “Have you found him yet?”
“I think so,” his colleague said. “Listen to this: Clive Arthur Denham Ogden, Security Service, also Secret Intelligence Service. Retired 1981.”
“That’s our man. And it sounds as if he’s publishing his memoirs.”
“They’re all doing it,” the colleague said glumly. “Anyway, you’d think a guy with that experience would know better than to discuss the subject on an open, international phone line. He must realise we listen to them all.”
“I bet he couldn’t care less,” his colleague replied. “Provided the bugger’s out of the country before they publish, he’s safe. Still, we’d better send all this on to London. There’s a standing request on Ogden’s file from some guy called Stringer in the Security Service.”
By the following morning, the transcript of the conversation between Ogden and Mr Stompfweiner lay on Stringer’s desk in Curzon Street. Needless to say, Stringer was far from pleased.
“The old piss-flap,” he declared.
“Something the matter, Mr Stringer?” his secretary inquired.
“Yeah,” Stringer said grimly. “That bastard Ogden’s writing his memoirs. Can you believe it? After all the trouble we took to warn those old cripples—you know something? I think he’s done it on purpose. In fact, I’m sure he has.”
He looked down at the transcript, and gritted his teeth in rage. “You know what this arsehole of an American publisher called him? A Galahad in the fight against the Red Menace. Galahad! I’ll give him fucking Galahad.”
He put on his jacket and went over to the door.
“I’ll be back in two hours,” he said.
He left the building and drove south to Ogden’s home in Blackheath. The journey took forty minutes, and Stringer spent most of it emitting blood-curdling oaths. By the time he arrived at Ogden’s home, he had worked himself up into uncontrollable fury. He thumped violently against the front door, and bawled out Ogden’s name at the top of his voice. Eventually, the door swung slowly open, and its owner blinked sleepily into the morning sunlight.
“Not today, thank you—oh, it’s you, Swinger. What can I do for you?”
Stringer’s reply consisted of a savage kick to the door, which sent Ogden tottering back into the hallway.
“Good heavens,” Ogden gasped. “What on earth—”
“I asked you nicely,” Stringer said, as he grabbed Ogden by the collar. “The D-G asked you nicely. Looks like we were pissing in the wind, doesn’t it?”
“What are you talking about?” Ogden gurgled.
“You know fucking well,” Stringer roared. “You’re printing your memoirs, aren’t you?”
“There’s no need for—”
“Oh yes there is,” Stringer said, as he brought his heel down hard onto Ogden’s slippered foot. “There’s every need. You did it on purpose, didn’t you? You and your American newspaper.”
He jabbed his fist into Ogden’s stomach, and as the old man slumped forward, Stringer pounded Ogden’s face with heavy, rhythmical slaps.
“That’s for ignoring me,” Stringer said. “That’s for ignoring the D-G. That’s for trying to wind us up. And that’s for thinking you could get away with it, you stupid old twat.”
Apart from a few muffled grunts, Ogden did not emit a sound. When Stringer had finished, he pinned Ogden to the wall and hissed into his face: “Perhaps you’ll listen this time. I want you to tear up those memoirs. I want you to phone the American, and your agent, and anyone else involved, and tell them it’s all off. Otherwise, I’ll come back and tear your goolies off. Get me?”
Despite his acute discomfort, Ogden forced himself to smile.
“You know, Springer old boy,” he gasped, “you really do have the most awful breath. I hate to mention it, but if you will insist on panting all over a chap’s face—”
Stringer grabbed what little remained of Ogden’s hair, and cracked his head against the wall.
“Not funny,” Stringer explained. “Now, are you going to do as I say?”
“Since—since you put it so nicely,” Ogden said, “I really have no choice—”
“You haven’t,” Stringer agreed.
“—but to tell you to go hang.”
Stringer brought up his knee into Ogden’s crotch, which produced a high-pitched whimper from the old man. For half a minute, Ogden’s eyes screwed up in pain. Then they slowly opened, releasing a stream of tears. Stringer grinned in satisfaction, and let Ogden fall to the ground.
“It can get a lot worse,” Stringer advised him. “I’m told that at your time of life, broken bones take a long time to heal. If you don’t want to spend your twilight years munching hospital food, you’d better bear that in mind.”
“You can’t fool me, Slinger,” Ogden said weakly. “I know you’re just a big softie underneath.”
Stringer shook his head and planted a farewell kick in Ogden’s side.
“Not funny,” he repeated. “And if those memoirs appear, I’ll be back.”
He slammed the door behind him, and drove away. After a long interval, Ogden managed to return to his feet and hobble over to the telephone. Twenty minutes later, the Vicar and Sybil arrived with a first-aid kit, including a half-bottle of brandy.
“Well, what did you expect?” Sybil said, as she dabbed iodine on Ogden’s temple.
“Nothing quite so aggressive,” Ogden admitted, as he gratefully sipped the cognac. “I believe that’s what’s known as a hard sell.”
“A thoroughgoing brute,” said the Vicar. “Fancy doing that to a man twice his age.”
“A nuisance twice his age,” Sybil corrected him. “That’s the point. And he was right: they did warn you.”
“Sybil darling,” Ogden groaned, “you are such a comfort in times of stress. It’s good to know that, whatever one’s problems, you will offer your full support—”
“Rot,” Sybil said. “You asked for it, and he gave it to you. And if you’ve any sense at all, you’ll do as he says. Now, where else did he hurt you?”
“Well,” Ogden mused, “I’ve got some nasty bruises on my toe, my hip, and my unmentionables. The toe and the hip will sort themselves out, but if you fancy administering some massage to—”
“Don’t be absurd,” Sybil snapped. “You can deal with that yourself.”
“I suppose it’s all over,” the Vicar observed.
“What is?”
“You know, the memoirs. We can’t really go ahead now, can we?”
Ogden stared in surprise.
“Why on earth not?”
The Vicar scratched his head in bewilderment.
“But—but—after all this—”
“What of it?” Ogden said. “You don’t seriously think I’m going to give in to some street-corner hoodlum, do you?”
Sybil shook her head in disgust.
“You’re incorrigible,” she said.
“Absolutely,” Ogden agreed. “I don’t give in to bullies. Never have, never will.”
“But he’ll hospitalise you.”
“He won’t dare,” Ogden said. “Think about it: once the memoirs are printed, I’ll be a public figure. If I’m knocked about, it will be pretty bad publicity for MI5, not to mention Her Majesty’s Government. No, the moment we’re published we’ll be safe as houses.”
“You really believe that?” Sybil said incredulously.
“Of course,” Ogden said. “Why do you think Stinger cut up so rough this morning? Impotent rage. The act of a desperate man.”
“An utter brute,” the Vicar agreed. “Still, what do you expect from a man who plays football?”
Chapter Eight
AND SO, DESPITE STRINGER’S threats, the following Wednesday’s edition of the Baltimore Bugle carried the first instalment of Clive Ogden’s memoirs under the heading, “Stranger than fiction—the sensational, uncensored autobiography of a British secret agent.”
There was considerable reaction in the United States; other newspapers and television stations expressed varying degrees of incredulity about Ogden’s spectacular career. “Clive Ogden: Superspy or Superfraud?” asked one paper. Another insisted that “Ogden, like his arch-enemy Akhmatov, is a B-movie invention.” The Washington Post insisted that Ogden was “the espionage world’s answer to Baron Munchausen”, but the Los Angeles Times was more noncommittal, urging that judgment be suspended until the British government issued a statement. The Times’ caution perhaps owed more to commerce than objectivity: it too was running the memoirs.
Not surprisingly, the British Press’s initial coverage was slight. The first stories appeared on the second or back pages of the newspapers, merely stating that a new espionage autobiography had appeared in the United States, and that the Government had so far delayed commenting upon its contents. Clearly, the media world was waiting for the official reaction to Ogden’s extraordinary tales before making up its mind.
The reaction, when it came, was everything Ogden and his friends had hoped for. MPs of various parties had tabled questions about the memoirs in the House of Commons, and Ogden & Co. listened to the radio as the Home Secretary issued his statement: “In reply to the Honourable Member for Sevenoaks, I can confirm that Mr Ogden is indeed a former member of the security services, though I am not prepared to reveal the specific nature of his employment there.”
“Good man,” Ogden nodded. “Keep it vague.”
