Quiet settled in the room, and he read the first page.
Statement of Gabrielle Davies, Security Service Officer
It was a good operation throughout and I was able to maintain positive levels of control at all times. My team worked well under my leadership. The ‘rendition’ of Timofey Simonov, listed as a Target of Value (our sole priority), met no obstructions at the Czech/German frontier, where the new personnel awaited us and we dropped the Czech policeman. The flight was uneventful and I have no record of any significant remark by TS. On the ground, TS was read his rights by local officials and they signed for his custody. I then returned to London. It has been put to me that it was ‘poor procedure’ to leave Daniel Curnow (increment) and Ralph Exton (covert human intelligence source) on site at the former military base of Milovice. They should have kept close to me, followed my instructions, and not permitted themselves to be separated. I accept no blame for their being split from the main party of us at a time of some confusion as we engaged ruthless and experienced criminals. Digitalised images of TS and Malachy Riordan with weapons have now been transferred to local prosecutors, and will augment earlier images of TS at his residence with the CHIS. My conclusion: the recruitment of the ‘increment’ was an unnecessary expense and he added little to the outcome of the operation.
Ambitious, able, but lacking verve or imagination and unlikely to think outside the loop. I believe she has a good future in the Service and will go far.
Promote her, let her rip, then find her level behind a desk. Watch her and look to advance her career.
Statement of Karol Pilar, detective UOOZ team, Prague
Following the transfer of the accused to a foreign jurisdiction I drove across country to Karlovy Vary and gained a vantage-point looking at the villa on Krale Jiriho, residence of Timofey Simonov. The prized dogs were left in the yard for the night – the king is dead, long live the king – and Brigadier (ret’d) Nikolai Denisov slept with his wife in the main first-floor front bedroom (formerly occupied by TS). I was not present the following evening but Denisov and wife used TS’s invitation to attend a charity gala at Hotel Pupp. (Relevant or not relevant?) My seniors dictate no further action will be taken against this Russian national and believe dust should be permitted to settle. It was a pleasure, and good experience, to work alongside Daniel Curnow. I was privileged.
A good officer whose modesty should not be allowed to mask his talents and input into the success of the operation. He should be cultivated and used where appropriate . . . I fear his hatred of organised crime groups (Russian ethnic origin) will stunt his promotion prospects in Prague.
An important catch, and worth serious remuneration. Buy him and own him.
Statement of Jocelyn Ferguson, Security Service
A good operation, well performed at all stages by Five staff. I think, already, a significant message has been sent. My latest information is that the prosecutors in the criminal case against Simonov (Timofey), to be brought to trial early next year, are very confident that allegations of illegal weapons transfers, using transport based in Belgium, will be proven. The evidence submitted will cause, hopefully, maximum embarrassment in Moscow’s siloviki circles. Without the drive of Matthew Bentinick, nothing would have been achieved.
A formidable administrator, lacking in morality, with a compulsion for hard work, and a devotion to MB that is not entirely appropriate.
Should be separated in the building. Right for the jihadist teams.
Statement of DS Conor Williams, MPS Special Branch.
The arrest of an unidentified marksman in south-west London when staking a safe-house where a Russian national lived under our protection will have severely unsettled FSB operatives at the Kensington Palace Gardens embassy. The subsequent suicide is not important: the damage is done to them and they will sweat on it.
An excellent result. Where would we be without the help of dog walkers and mums on the way to and from the school gate? The best eyes and ears we have.
Letter of thanks, oil the cogs, to commissioner, Metropolitan Police Service.
Statement of Matthew Bentinick, Security Service officer
I led a dedicated team and am delighted to report success in all areas of the operation. It was a job well done. I was particularly pleased with the efforts of Gabrielle Davies. I congratulate her and am happy to say she exceeded my expectations in leadership and performance. I pay tribute to those in less substantial roles, including former sergeant, Intelligence Corps, Daniel Curnow, Vagabond from days of old, but regret that in the final stages his actions fell outside his immediate brief. We hurt our opponents and cannot ask for much more. There may be some who suggest my rigour in pursuing this case is governed by a personal situation – quite untrue and an unworthy accusation. I regret what happened to Curnow but we are in a grown-up world – as he well knew. He would have accepted that only the breaking of eggs leads to the making of an omelette.
A warrior from a bygone age, finding it difficult, I assume, to conjure up sufficient worthwhile enemies. To resurrect something of Cold War times and to have linkage with the present stuttering campaign of the Republican ‘left-behinds’ in the Province would have brought a rare opportunity for his talents to be showcased. Amusing, likeable and utterly vulnerable, he is idiosyncratic in taste and style but remains a welcome and refreshing breath of air from the ‘by-numbers’ box-tickers that I occasionally feel have taken ownership of the twin Services. However, his treatment of Curnow is unsatisfactory by current risk assessment and duty of care requirements. Does the end justify the means? Others must decide whether this ‘end’ was worth the high price paid.
Devious beggar, but effective, and who among us can appreciate the torment of his daughter’s situation? Sometimes crass, but utterly incisive in decision-taking. Ruthless, but should not more personnel in the Service demonstrate that trait?
Statement of Ralph Exton, covert human intelligence source
I did what I could, thought I did it quite well. I make my own bed and I lie in it, so, I left myself open to pressure from your lot and have only myself to blame. As I always say when life gets fruity, ‘Fuck me . . . Another day at the office . . . Fuck me’, and usually the sentiment tides me over. Everyone I dealt with from Thames House was an utter shit, with neither manners nor concern for me, like I was some mid-European slapper brought in to scrub the toilets. I wouldn’t give them, again, the time of day. An exception? There’s always one. Danny. Hold a bloke in your arms – when all the others have buggered off to collect their medals and hero-grams – while he’s slipping and bleeding, and when you’ve been abandoned, and you get kind of fond of him. He’d been tough on me. No question. But he was honest. Never dealt with anyone else who had that honesty, real truthfulness, told it like it was. Brilliant guy. The whole history of what happened is in the safe-deposit box of a solicitor who practises human rights, state abuses, all that crap, so don’t come after me and expect me not to scratch your bloody eyes out.
And me? Not too bad, thank you. My wife found out, painfully, that her dentist friend was putting himself around and had done a bunk, sharpish, because the husband turned up with a weighty wrench. We had a chat, her and me. We go back a long way, good times and awful ones. We’re selling up in the leafy lanes, and think we’re getting a good price. We’re looking at an opening for an antiques business on the coast at Torbay. Our daughter’s coming with us. I hate all of you, which is rare for me, and despise you, too. I’m quite sorry about poor old Timofey S: pompous but not altogether bad, and probably not deserving the twenty years’ gaol he’ll get. The exception? I can’t and won’t ever hate Danny Curnow, a first-class guy. You’d have been bare-arsed without him.
A lovely man, and great fun to be with. Deprecating about his personal courage but as brave as a lion. The story about the drill, not making a drama from a crisis, is apposite. He made me laugh. Torbay is a good choice: all those trawlers floating about and reeling in fish and so much else that’s been dropped off in the
high seas – many opportunities for scratching a living. Antiques, brand new or recently new, should be right for his entrepreneurial skills. I think he’ll come through well, and has the resilience. I hope the Service will take responsibility for his and his family’s safety. In the forest, before that hung-over stag group showed up to drive a tank, alone with Curnow, he displayed great tenderness when others had bolted. The Service should take the responsibility seriously.
What am I supposed to do? He’s a tout, inherently dishonest, untrustworthy. Shouldn’t be permitted airs and graces, and if he’s above himself then a tax inspector may pay a visit. (A judge in chambers to place a gagging order.) I’ll not be blackmailed. Should be cut off and left to swim, or to sink.
Statement of Sebastian James, Security Service officer, Palace Barracks, NI
Acting on London instructions I visited the hide behind the Riordan farm on that Saturday evening. I was in place when a taxi dropped Malachy Riordan at the end of the farm lane. I have no psychiatric training but he looked to me a devastated and insecure man. He came home and was greeted by his family, who were back from the double funeral of the bomb casualties. He sat outside his door, with his dog, through the evening and late into the night. I stayed (had PSNI back-up) and when the dawn came he was out again. Strange: he seemed to know that someone was watching, but did nothing. He looked up often enough, as if searching for me, and I was ready to bug out fast if he came. He didn’t. Every other time I’ve seen him he was a character of presence, importance and authority, but that’s gone, like a snake’s shed skin.
Two women came. I identified them as Attracta Donnelly, widow of a prominent PIRA fighter, KIA 1991, and Siobhan Nugent, also a widow but her husband was murdered as an informer in the same year: now close friends. I could not hear the words used but the body language showed he was under fierce criticism and could not rebut it. This is the mountain of the legendary Shane Bearnagh, the ‘rapparee’ or guerrilla fighter of centuries ago, and these are fiercely independent and resourceful opponents. Whatever happened, Riordan was a man destroyed and seemed to ride their punches, verbal, like a fighter waiting for the towel to come into the ring. Extraordinary. What happened when he was away is outside my remit.
Subsequent intelligence indicates Malachy Riordan is a spent force, ignored and humiliated. Something else that first day. From my POV, and with my binoculars, I could see a deserted barn, 1500 yards due east of the Riordan farm. In my work area there is an old stager, a former major in a Fusiliers unit. He runs the CHIS, Antelope. He met that morning, I had decent eyeball, with Brendan (Brennie) Murphy: local strategist and motivator. I assume Antelope and Murphy are one and the same. They should not meet again in that location. Anyway, Riordan is now – my opinion – history, a busted flush. I do not expect him to survive.
Concerning lines 6 to 1 from bottom: should be redacted. I understand that Riordan was a secondary target, but the result stands up well in comparison to the main objective. A dangerous man removed from a combat zone. He obviously murdered Frances McKinney, but I fancy that an additional confrontation took place at Milovice before he shot Daniel Curnow: I cannot speculate, except that Curnow damaged him irreparably. Interesting. Riordan is walking dead. He seems to know and fear it.
A silly young man, Sebastian James, imagining himself clever. A vacancy might arise, with swift expedition, for the teaching of intelligence-gathering to local forces – Baghdad or Kabul?
Statement of Hector Mackay, consul, FCO, Calais
I was at the funeral, as HMG representative, of Daniel Curnow, UK citizen but resident in Caen, France. The interment was in the British military cemetery at 49 rue de Fumes, Dunkirk. The Commonwealth War Graves commission, under pressure from a nameless London-based agency, had agreed to find a grave site within the confines, at the extreme north-east corner near the canal. It will carry his name, and the logo ‘Vagabond’. It was a small occasion, a padre from a base in Germany, a Mr Dusty Miller, who claimed to be a life-long friend, a blonde woman, who declined to identify herself to me – she asked the gravedigger to place a picture in the gap between the coffin and the earth but I did not see what it showed – and two French females from the house in Caen where Mr Curnow had lived. Also, a representative of a battlefield-tour company. There were medals on the coffin, quite a few. It was short and no refreshments were served afterwards. We all went our various ways.
Poor that the Service, amid such enthusiastic self-congratulation, was not present: a stain on its reputation. I wish I had known him, not that it would have been easy. He would have been a man I respected. He did his duty, but few thought it necessary to offer gratitude. A different world, thankfully not mine. Yes, I would have liked to know him, and walk with him on those beaches.
I’ll not take lecturing from Carter. An old man doing an Icarus imitation. Wax can get burned and it’s a long way down. We did well and behaved with discretion. I’m aware of necessary etiquette.
Conclusion of Carter, Henry
In brief: a successful operation but insufficient regard paid to the costs it would incur. Some might feel shame for that; others might not.
We will not indulge in Stalinist or Cuban self-flagellation. At the end of the day, among all the cock-ups and cut-backs, we did something that was professionally satisfying. A down-side with Vagabond but not nearly outweighing the good. Remember Matthew’s damn omelette.
He closed it. Tomorrow was another day, and a cabal of northern Islamists was due to have its front doors stoved in during the hour before dawn. It was unlikely that he would ever find time to read the full version, but his chief of staff, a young man with prospects, would annotate and put in place his margin notes. The PA was at the door, holding his coat, hat and gloves, and told him the car was waiting.
It was a cold afternoon and that bitter wind was coming down the coast off the Dutch and Belgian shores, seeming to sweep the dunes. Wide sands had been left by a retreating tide and Dusty, by now, was capable of imagining the long lines of patient men who had waited there, hoping for a lift out. The guide had the tourists and they were on a concrete slipway, but Dusty was left to himself and could imagine. God, he missed Desperate. The sand was in his face, his shoes and his hair. There were runners on the beach, down by the water line, and a couple of heavy-tonnage bulk carriers far out, on the way south from Rotterdam. He missed him so much that his soul ached.
The whistle came. The clouds were low, scudded, and there might be a frost or at least some sleet. Always, at this time of year, with the full force of winter beckoning, the guide had to marshal the visitors and keep up the time discipline. They wouldn’t wish to be at the cemetery when the dark made it impossible to read the names, units and ages. He caught the movement back towards the minibus and scurried to be there before them. The most important moment of his week was Monday evening when the visitors were at Dunkirk to learn of the evacuation and see the place. Most were crushed by it. The cemetery always upset them too. It upset Dusty.
The second most important moment was the Sunday night when he’d drive up from Caen and buy some flowers at a petrol station. He could lean over the wall of the graveyard, which was locked, and drop them on the one plot that was aside from the others.
On the Monday he could go there, stand at the right end, close to where Desperate’s feet would be. So calm in that place. The girl had left Honfleur, and the tour-company people never laid a posy. Only Dusty came.
He had a clear idea of what Desperate would have said, that first evening after he was put in there and the place was shut up for the night. ‘Sorry if I’ve disturbed you, boys. Thanks for finding space for an old ’un. I’m Vagabond, no fixed abode – well, not till now. Anyway, better late than never.’
He went to the minibus, leaving the greyness of the sea behind him. He would drive to the cemetery, and the guide would keep the visitors on the move. They’d be the last out before the clang of the gate. It was always difficult, saying farewell to an old friend. He turned hi
s back on the sea, and the sand, and drove. He could never get the face of his friend out of his mind, but didn’t want to. He’d say it to himself often enough, silent but with his lips moving: ‘You know why they brought you back, why they did it? Because they knew of no one better to get than the call-sign Vagabond. Never was anyone better.’
About The Author
Gerald Seymour spent fifteen years as an international television news reporter with ITN, covering Vietnam and the Middle East, and specialising in the subject of terrorism across the world. Seymour was on the streets of Londonderry on the afternoon of Bloody Sunday, and was a witness to the massacre of Israeli athletes at the Munich Olympics.
Gerald Seymour exploded onto the literary scene with the massive bestseller HARRY’S GAME. He has been a full-time writer since 1975, and six of his novels have been filmed for television in the UK and US. THE CORPORAL’S Wife is his thirtieth novel.
Also By Gerald Seymour
and published by Hodder & Stoughton
Vagabond Page 46
