by Duncan James
***
Bill Clayton saw the Prime Minister alone in his Downing Street office.
“It’s very good of you to see me, Prime Minister, and I sincerely hope I’m not wasting your time, but something’s come up in relation to Op. Honolulu that I thought you should know about. On the other hand,” continued Bill thoughtfully, “it would be rather better in the end if I am eventually proved to be wasting your time.”
“I told you at the beginning that if there were any problems you should discuss them with me direct. You’d better explain.”
“Frankly,” said Bill, “I am extremely worried that we may have a traitor in our midst. Someone we have trusted absolutely until now appears to have let us down, and not to have been on our side at all.”
“Good grief,” exclaimed Tony Weaver. “If true, that is very serious indeed, and I see now what you meant about hoping that you are wasting my time. Are you suspicious of anyone in particular?”
“Yes, I am, although I should find it difficult to believe if it proved to be true.” said Clayton. “My problem is, though, that until we can be certain of the man’s identity, I no longer know whom I can trust. Which is why I asked to meet you on your own.”
“I quite understand that,” said Weaver. “Tell me what’s happened to arouse your suspicions.”
“It is all related to that wretched envelope of my uncle’s, and his later murder. At the time, Edward Benbow was acting for your Government, Prime Minister, as an arms inspector in Libya, following Gadaffi’s admission that he had WMDs. Obviously, because of the envelope, his death is in some way related to Op. Honolulu, but for the life of me I have been unable to find the link or any explanation at all. But it all comes back to the envelope containing the list of terrorist bank accounts, which, you may remember, you passed on to Sir Robin Algar. He, in turn, gave it to Alistair Vaughan at the Bank of England. Alistair is an old and trusted colleague of mine, but I’m sad to say that he is my prime suspect.”
“Why?” asked the Prime Minister, looking very worried.
Bill Clayton told Tony Weaver about the circumstances surrounding the death of Father Sean Doyle, the erstwhile priest of the Falls Road, but also one of Bill’s top men, who had actually supplied most of the bank account details, gleaned through his other role as the IRA’s Treasurer.
“You may remember me telling you that he was found dead in Strangford Loch.”
The Prime Minister nodded.
“For a time, we imagined that he had suffered at the hands of the IRA, who probably assumed that he was responsible for the disappearance of their funds. But then this arrived in the post.”
Bill took Doyle’s letter from his pocket, and waited while the Prime Minister read it.
“Well,” asked Weaver, “What do you make of it?”
“We now know,” said Clayton, “that Doyle committed suicide, presumably because he feared torture or worse at the hand of his IRA colleagues. But he left a false trail, to ensure people didn’t suspect any involvement with us. The public view of his suicide now is that he was a paedophile, about to be uncovered, although we know that he was no such thing. Now look at this, if you will.”
Clayton produced the scribbled note that had been included with the letter.
The Prime Minister read it with growing concern.
“Now I understand,” he said, quietly.
He sat, thoughtfully, for a few moments.
“I find all this as difficult to believe as you do, but we really do need to take colleagues into our confidence if we are to get at the truth.”
Clayton frowned.
“I shall take full responsibility for this, as I have for everything else which has happened in this area recently, but I want you to go over all this again, with Robin Algar, who I trust absolutely, and one other, who I believe you also know from the past – Air Commodore Paul Bridges. I’m told he has one of the highest security clearances available, and he also knows Vaughan well.”
Clayton knew that Army Majors don’t argue with Prime Ministers, so he had to agree. Eventually, in response to Tony Weaver’s summons, both men joined them. Clayton briefed them, as he had the Prime Minister, and showed them the two notes from Doyle.
“I came direct to the Prime Minister with this,” he concluded, “because frankly I didn’t know whom I could trust anymore. I’m having Vaughan checked out, so there’s no need for either of you to do anything on that front. So far, though, the whole thing remains a complete mystery, and Vaughan seems, at the moment, to be beyond reproach.”
“Frankly, that doesn’t surprise me, Bill,” said Paul Bridges. “I’ve known him and worked with him on and off for years, but you were absolutely right not to dismiss this out of hand.”
“And equally right to trust no-one until you had done some research,” said Sir Robin Algar. “But like Paul, I would find this very hard to believe.”
“I’m afraid I took the view that I shouldn’t trust anyone who had seen that envelope, apart from my own team, of course, and you, Prime Minister,” said Clayton.
“The fact remains, though, that the link with Libya could help to explain why Edward Benbow was murdered,” said the Prime Minister.
“And at the moment,” said Bill Clayton, “It’s the only explanation available to us. There seems to be no other possible motive, except that Vaughan wanted to prevent Benbow from uncovering his arms dealing activities, and so arranged for him to be shot. It’s quite possible that Vaughan could have been creaming off the IRAs’ funds as well as being a fundraiser, and he could also have creamed the top off the accounts we’ve just closed. As an ex-Head of the Fraud Squad, he’d know all the dodges.”
“A bent ex-copper,” murmured Robin Algar.
“The problem is,” said the Prime Minister, “that if we do confirm these suspicions, we can hardly have him arrested and charged. It would blow the whole of Op. Honolulu sky high.”
“So what will you do next?” Paul Bridges asked Clayton.
“I’m waiting for the results of forensic tests on the bullets, recovered at the scene by Sussex Police, and Vaughan is under close personal surveillance. After that, God knows,” said Clayton. “And I have to say that at the moment, Vaughan looks squeaky-clean.”
“That’s a relief, but not all together surprising,” said the Cabinet Secretary, “unless I totally misjudged the man.”
“The whole thing makes no sense to me at all, to be honest,” said Clayton. “Just cast your mind back to our lunch, Sir Robin. I mentioned, in front of Vaughan, plans to blow up the Arms dump south of the border, while the IRA Quartermaster was inside. He appears to have done nothing to stop that, when he could have. And he appears to have done nothing to thwart our plans to empty the terrorist coffers – indeed, he suggested Jim Farlow as the man who could do it for us. It just doesn’t make sense.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” said the Prime Minister. “The whole thing is quite extraordinary.”
“There was one thing I wanted to ask while I am here, Prime Minister,” said Clayton. “Can you possible find out for me, very discretely, how much cash was actually moved from the various IRA accounts into the special Treasury account which was opened for it?”
“Why do you ask?” enquired Weaver,
“Well, Sean Doyle gave us a pretty good idea how much was in the accounts, and I would just like to be sure that none of it was creamed off during Vaughan’s operation to close the accounts.”
“That’s a damned good idea, Bill,” said Robin Algar. “If I may use a phone, Prime Minister, I can get a ball-park figure almost immediately.”
“Go ahead,” said the PM.
He did, and it was all there.
Another mark in Vaughan’s favour, and a further deepening of the mystery surrounding his role in this affair.
Clayton wondered how Catherine was getting on.
