by Bob Cook
“Gosh,” said the Vicar. “That’s smart work, Jeremy.”
“I thought so too,” Beauchamp agreed. “It means my Lemiers is back in the running. So tell the others, will you? I’ll be catching a flight home tomorrow morning, and I’ll be around after lunch, all right?”
“Yes, of course. Congratulations, old man.”
“Cheerio.”
The Vicar put the phone down, and gave the news to his friends.
“Good old Jeremy,” the Laird said. “Just when things were beginning to dry up, as well.”
“You realise what this means?” Ogden said. “We’ve now got a firm link between Lemiers and that fellow Kyle.”
“Kyle’s company, at least.”
“Of course you have,” Sybil said, as she came into the room. “You always had it, but you were too jolly incompetent to see it.”
“Good afternoon, O radiant one,” Ogden said. “Have you come to cast some shafts of golden sunlight upon the proceedings?”
“Someone ought to,” Sybil sniffed.
She put down her handbag and took a seat.
“Your big mistake,” she said, “was to keep looking for a shipment of arms. You see, there never were any.”
The men glanced at each other inquiringly.
“Do you know what she’s talking about?” the Vicar asked the Laird.
“Haven’t the foggiest,” the Laird admitted.
“She’s your wife, Vicar,” Ogden observed. “If you can’t make sense of her, what can we do?”
Sybil shook her head contemptuously.
“If you’d spent more time thinking, and less on making silly jokes, you might have solved this puzzle. As it is, I’ve done it for you.”
The Vicar thoughtfully scratched his jaw.
“You’re saying that Jeremy’s Lemiers is the one we want?”
“That’s right.”
“But until now, you’ve been saying the exact opposite. And you tore a strip off Jeremy for going to see his widow.”
“That was earlier,” Sybil said dismissively. “I didn’t know her husband was illegally exporting chemicals, did I?”
“What?”
“Start at the beginning,” Ogden suggested. “Nice and slowly, and preferably in words of one syllable.”
“As one would treat an imbecile,” Sybil nodded. “Don’t worry, Clive, I know how to teach you things.”
She produced her notes, put on her glasses, and began her story.
“There were two clues in Lemiers’ papers, and you missed both of them. The first was the name SEPP, and the accompanying address: PO Box 5367. The second was the order next to it: two more tons of POC 13.
“SEPP is not a name. It stands for the State Establishment for Pesticide Production, in Iraq. And POC13 is the standard symbol for phosphorus oxychloride.
“If you recall, the Turkish shipping agent’s receipt mentioned, among other things, sixty tons of phosphorus oxychloride. This was destined for the State Organisation for Chemical Industries in Baghdad, Iraq. SEPP is a subdivision of this organisation, and they can both be reached at P0 Box 5367, Al Rasheed Street, Baghdad, Iraq.”
Ogden clapped his hands.
“Full marks, Sybil. Is that it?”
“By no means,” Sybil said. “SEPP is also the government department responsible for Iraq’s chemical-warfare project.”
“You don’t say?”
Sybil took out the newspaper cuttings she had bought from the agency.
“Apparently, there’s a big production plant about forty kilometres south of a place called Samarra. It says here that the plant makes at least a thousand tons of chemical weapons per year. Of course, the Iraqis claim it’s a pesticide plant. But they don’t have any kind of pesticide industry, and there’s no doubt about the real purpose of this factory.”
The Laird raised his pipe in an inquiring gesture.
“Okay,” he said. “But if the Flavio was taking chemicals for Iraq, why did Carter think it was taking arms for the United States?”
“Because that’s what he was supposed to think,” Sybil said. “It was Lemiers who organised the shipment, claiming to be Carter on the phone.”
“That was my theory,” the Vicar protested. “And you said it was nonsense.”
“I’ll admit you were right about that, Godfrey,” Sybil said magnanimously. “But that’s just about all. Anyway, the Naples authorities checked the boat before it left, and found no guns. That was because there were never any. The only thing that was wrong about this shipment of chemicals was its final destination: Iraq. You see, under United States and European law, we’re not allowed to sell them chemicals which can be used to make weapons. And these particular chemicals are used in the manufacture of two nerve agents, Sarin and Tabun.”
“Are you sure about that?” Ogden asked.
“Of course I’m sure,” Sybil snapped. “What do you think I’ve been doing for the last couple of days? I’ve sought expert opinions on every part of—”
“All right, all right,” Ogden chuckled. “Forgive my impudence.”
“Wait a minute,” the Laird said. “If it’s illegal to send this stuff to Iraq, why didn’t the authorities stop it in Naples?”
“Because they didn’t know where it was going,” Sybil replied. “The goods were marked down for a shipping agent in Turkey. There was nothing on Captain Salvucci’s export documents to suggest that they would then go to Iraq. In fact, even the captain didn’t know where they would end up, until the Turkish agent gave him his receipt.”
“Fair enough,” the Laird said. “But you still haven’t explained why Carter thought he was shipping arms.”
“It’s quite simple,” Sybil said. “The original deal was between Lemiers and the American company, Magnum Inc. The Americans gave Lemiers all the information and support he needed to pose as an international arms dealer, and that’s why Carter believed he was genuine. But the point of the exercise was to sell chemicals to the Iraqis, in violation of international law. Remember, chemical weapons played a big part in the Gulf War.”
“But that’s all over,” the Vicar observed.
“Yes, and why was it brought to an end? Iran had overwhelming superiority in numbers, remember. But the Iraqis overcame that problem by using chemical weapons. And apart from the fighting on the battlefield, these weapons were used in reprisal attacks on villages. They wiped out five thousand people in their own town of Halabja for not resisting Iranian occupation.
“Besides, there’s always the chance that hostilities will re-open. If so, Iraq wants to be ready with Sarin and Tabun. And the Iraqis haven’t just used these nerve agents against Iranians: they’re still having trouble with Kurdish insurgents, and they’re using chemical weapons to sort out that problem, too.”
Ogden was still not convinced.
“But why does the CIA want to peddle chemicals to the Iraqis, if it’s against their own country’s law?”
“The law didn’t stop them selling arms to Iranians,” Sybil observed. “And it’s the Iraqis who the Americans have always supported, isn’t it? Anyway, I didn’t think the CIA were ever particularly troubled by laws.”
“True,” said the Vicar. “But if this Colonel Kyle wanted to sell chemicals to the Iraqis, why didn’t he just pay Lemiers to send them? Why did he bring Carter into it, and swindle him?”
“That was the clever bit,” Sybil said. “Suppose something had gone terribly wrong with this shipment. For instance, a snap inspection by somebody in authority, who was also prepared to question the Turkish shipping agent. If that had happened, there would have been nothing to link the cargo of chemicals with Magnum Inc. and the CIA. After all, the ship was ordered by an Englishman called Carter.”
“What if Carter had pointed the finger at Colonel Kyle?”
“Why should he? Kyle had ordered arms, not chemicals. And even if Kyle were questioned, nothing could be pinned on him. He would claim he’d never heard of anyone called Lemiers, and there�
�d be no evidence to connect the two men. He’d show the investigators Magnum Inc.’s account books, which would prove that all his dealings were with reputable, legitimate arms dealers. Furthermore, he hadn’t sought out Carter—Carter had been introduced to him.”
“And as we know,” Ogden observed, “when the cargo went ‘missing’, Carter was not in a position to complain to the authorities, because he thought he’d been organising a dodgy arms deal. Splendid, Sybil. You’ve done a magnificent job.”
“Hear, hear,” said the Laird.
“Yes, you have done quite well,” the Vicar agreed.
“Quite well?” Sybil boomed. “Quite well? I’ve done superbly well, Godfrey. I’ve solved the whole mystery.”
“Not quite,” the Vicar grinned. “You still haven’t explained why Carter was murdered, along with the others, and who was responsible.”
Sybil paused. Her husband had clearly scored a point.
“It’s the same problem I had,” the Vicar sympathised. “You see, these things are never entirely straightforward, are they?”
“Well, I can’t be expected to think of everything,” Sybil said.
“Of course you can’t,” Ogden smiled. “But don’t worry. I think we might be able to clear up that little problem as well. You see, I don’t think the CIA really did want to sell chemicals to the Iraqis. Let’s just think this through, shall we?”
Chapter Forty
“TRY HARDER,” Stringer said.
“That’s all I know,” Blewitt insisted. “They were just four old blokes. You know: wrinkles, white hair, the usual stuff. What more do you want?”
“Names,” Stringer said.
Mr Blewitt shook his head. “I do cars,” he said, “not christenings.”
“How did they pay?”
“Cash, as I recall. Hang on.”
He looked in his account book and nodded.
“Yeah, cash.”
“And you’re sure it was this registration number?” Stringer said.
“Positive. I keep records, don’t I?”
Stringer glanced at his colleague, a burly gentleman from the Special Branch who was holding a walkie-talkie.
“What do you think, Ted?”
The Special Branch man shrugged.
“Could be them. I’ve checked the registration number with the Telecom records: the van concerned was never used by the Reserve fleet. But Croft had to re-paint the logo anyway, so he probably just added the Reserve code himself.”
“Yeah,” Stringer said. “Are your people going to take much longer?”
“Another five minutes,” Ted said. “They’re moving as fast as they can.”
Stringer guessed that the van had been re-sold immediately after Ogden and the Vicar had visited the exchange. His investigation team had obtained a list of vans that had come on to the market through private hands, and this was now being cross-checked with the number Mr Blewitt had provided. With luck, this would provide two sets of identifications, and both would point to Ogden.
“Right,” Stringer said. “If that’s all you can remember, Mr Blewitt, try these for size.”
He took out a set of photographs and gave them to the car dealer.
“No,” Mr Blewitt said, as he saw the first photo. “Nor this one. No. No. Hang on a minute…”
He peered intently at the fifth photo, and nodded slowly. “Yeah, he was one of them. Had a wig, now I remember. One of the worst ones I’ve ever seen.”
“Keep going.”
“No. No. Here’s another one. Tall guy. Posh accent. They all had posh voices, now I think about it.”
“Good,” Stringer said. “Do you remember anything else about this one. Anything unusual?”
Mr Blewitt scratched his head.
“Yeah, I do. He chewed gum. Bubble-gum.”
“Did he indeed?” Stringer grinned. “Look through the rest of the photos, will you?”
The Special branch officer’s walkie-talkie crackled into life, and a female voice inquired: “Alpha Four?”
“Alpha Four,” Ted replied. “What have you got?”
“A dealer in Bracknell. We’ve just phoned him: says he bought the van from two old men. Out of date tax disc, apparently.”
“Nice one,” Ted said. “Let’s have the details.”
“That makes sense,” Stringer said, as Ted wrote down the dealer’s name and address. “If they only wanted it for a couple of days, they wouldn’t have bothered to get it taxed.”
“These two,” Mr Blewitt announced, holding up another pair of photographs. “The one on the left paid the money.”
Stringer took the four photographs and held them together.
“Beauchamp, Ogden, Croft and Buchanan. Lovely.”
“You been looking for them?” Mr Blewitt said.
“Oh yes,” Stringer said quietly. “We’ve been looking for them, all right.”
“They don’t look like villains to me.”
“Believe me, Mr Blewitt, these are four bad lads. Don’t be fooled by their age and the endearing little grins on their faces. These old fuckers belong inside; and I’m going to enjoy putting them there.”
Mr Blewitt looked sceptical.
“What have they done?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Stringer sighed.
“Anyway, thanks for your help, Mr Blewitt. There’ll be somebody round this afternoon to take a full statement from you, and you may have to appear in court as a witness.”
“Okay,” Ted said, as he put away his note-book. “Over to Bracknell, I suppose.”
“Definitely,” Stringer nodded. “Then you can pick up a warrant for their arrest. By Christ, Ted, I’m looking forward to this.”
Chapter Forty-one
“IS THAT YOU, CHESTER?” Ogden asked.
“Yes,” said a high-pitched American voice. “Hello, Clive. How are things?”
“Fine,” Ogden said. “Listen, I’m in a call-box, and I don’t have much change. Did you get my letter?”
“Yes I did, Clive. It’s deliciously mysterious. What does it all mean?”
“It’s just as I explained in the letter,” Ogden said. “The inner envelope contains something that might save my neck if things go wrong around here.”
“Why can’t I read it?” Chester demanded. “Don’t you trust me, or something?”
“I trust you implicitly, old man. But if you don’t read it, you can’t be incriminated in any way, see?”
“Okay,” Chester said reluctantly. “But I want the full story when you’re next over here.”
“You’ll get it,” Ogden promised. “Now, do you remember what to do?”
“Sure. If anything happens, I’ll hear from your lawyer. Then I’ll take the envelope to Mr Stompfweiner in Baltimore.”
“Good man,” Ogden said. “Any questions?”
“No,” Chester said. “Except what the hell is going on?”
“Wait and see,” Ogden grinned. “Speak to you soon.”
“Bye, Clive.”
Ogden put the phone down and left the call-box. He assumed that his own phone was being tapped, and although international calls were also monitored, the chances of his being overheard were greatly diminished. He popped a stick of bubble-gum into his mouth, and walked back to the Vicar’s house.
The Laird, Beauchamp and the Vicar were in the drawing-room, putting the finishing touches to the latest instalment of the memoir.
“Leave it hanging,” the Vicar suggested. “After all, Clive’s just about to lead a frontal assault on the villain’s HQ. He doesn’t really know what to expect there—”
“Apart from a lot of trouble,” Beauchamp said.
“Exactly,” the Laird nodded. “So let’s keep the readers guessing, and save up the fireworks for the next episode.”
“Very well,” said the Vicar. “We’ll do that. It all works reasonably neatly, doesn’t it?”
He typed out the last sentence, and drew the page out of the typewriter.
A quick glance at the script ensured that there were no spelling errors, and he handed the instalment to Beauchamp.
“Off you go,” he said.
Beauchamp stood up and put on his jacket.
“Why the rush?” Ogden asked, as he entered the room.
“Mr Stompfweiner phoned while you were out,” the Laird explained. “He’s going to run this instalment one day early, because there’s a national holiday or something. Anyway, he wants it in tonight.”
“There’s a fax bureau about half a mile from here,” Beauchamp said, “and I picked the short straw.”
“Why don’t you take our car?” the Vicar suggested.
“He can’t,” Sybil called out from the kitchen. “The insurance doesn’t cover him.”
“In that case, Sybil, why don’t you drive him over?” the Laird said.
“I’m much too busy,” Sybil said briskly.
The Vicar grinned, and put his finger to his lips. Then he reached over to the table, and handed Beauchamp the car keys. Beauchamp nodded appreciatively.
“Never mind,” he said loudly. “I shan’t be long.”
He folded up the papers, slipped them into his jacket, and went out.
“Chester got the letter, all right?”
“He did,” Ogden said. “The old darling was almost wetting himself with inquisitiveness about the inner envelope. Still, Chester’s a reliable sort. By the way, have you phoned Mr Blake yet?”
“Beauchamp did. Obviously, it was a guarded conversation, but Blake made it clear that he supports our theory entirely.”
“I should hope so too,” Ogden said. “After all the work we’ve done.”
“Anyway,” said the Vicar, “what’s our next move?”
“Well,” Ogden said thoughtfully, “I’ve been mulling over this one, and it occurs to me that—”
He was interrupted by the front-door bell.
“Who could that be?” the Vicar wondered.
“Are you going to answer it?” Sybil called out.
“No,” the Laird replied nastily. “We’re much too busy.”
“For heaven’s sake,” Sybil groaned.
The others heard her stomp impatiently to the front door.
