Experiment With Destiny

by Carr, Stephen

  “Sorry I’m late.” Giles stepped up to the table, hands thrust deep into his pockets as was his habit. “Missed my monorail shuttle.”

  “Glad you can afford to travel in such style! Grab a seat.” Giles accepted, extracting his hands from his pockets and occupying them by running his fingers through his perfectly coiffured shoulder-length hair.

  “I’m issued with an all-destinations season pass. You know our lot. We love the pretence of supporting public transport.”

  “Interesting definition of public. Can I get you a drink?”

  “Cynic!” Giles laughed, as always a little too loudly. “They do a moderately decent South Australian chardonnay in here and I’m definitely thinking seafood at the moment. Thanks.” Steven searched the nearby tables for a waiter. It would be South Australian, complete with added Eurostate import tax. Still, major league expenses claim. “Caught a glimpse of the monkfish on the way past, looks fabulous. How about you?”

  “Monkfish sounds fine to me. Excuse me!” A nearby waiter acknowledged him. “But I need to keep a clear head so you’re on your own with the chardonnay.”

  “Excellent…I mean, what a shame…for you.” Giles produced a silver cigarette case from his coat pocket. “This is one of the few remaining restaurants in town that hasn’t banned smoking.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I gave up…two years ago.” The waiter approached. “A bottle of South Australian chardonnay please and…shall I order now?” Giles nodded, selecting a cigarette from the gleaming case. “Two monkfish. White wine sauce?” Giles nodded again. “White wine sauce and vegetables of the day.” Giles lit his cigarette with an equally gleaming Zippo.

  “Chips, sauté potatoes, baked potato or boiled new potatoes, sir?” The waiter spoke with a thick Eastern Eurostate accent.

  “Definitely boiled, with butter,” said Giles, exhaling his smoke teasingly toward Steven.

  “Me too. You didn’t want a starter?” Giles shook his head. “That’s fine, thanks.”

  “Don’t mind if I smoke?” It was Steven’s turn to shake his head. “Good, it’s the only reason I come here. The food’s very…average. Now, let’s dispense with the chit-chat and tell me about this scandal of yours. I’d like to make the three-o’clock shuttle back home if that’s okay with you.”

  Their monkfish arrived, along with a second bottle of chardonnay, by the time Steven had related the essence of the story to Giles, who seemed less than impressed, and reverted to intermittent small talk as they ate.

  “As scandals go, it’s very low grade,” Giles eventually announced disparagingly between his last few mouthfuls. “I could tell you things that would really make your hair curl!”

  “Don’t bait me.”

  “Of course I wouldn’t. I’ve signed documents giving them the right to violently extract my entrails if I ever spill the beans on what goes on behind the scenes at party HQ. Seriously Steve, what’s the big deal about switching three dead MOD types for non people thingies? I’m sure their nearest and dearest will be delighted you haven’t been given a chance to splash it all over the Echo. Unless they were ministers or civil servants, you wouldn’t normally be given the IDs for personnel connected to the military. Not these days.

  “But it’s wrong.”

  “Maybe, but that’s life. Before the British Nationalist thing flared up again they were a bit more open about these things…but you know what it’s like now. Everyone’s a bit fried, we’re all a little more paranoid about who we give information to these days.”

  “Whatever happened to the Freedom of Information Act, eh?”

  “Why do you think I quit reporting? Freedom of the press, it’s all a sham, Steve. We can’t afford that kind of freedom any more or the lunatic fringe will have us blown to hell in no time and we’ll be back to the bad old days.”

  “What bad old days?” Giles lit another cigarette and Steven fought the temptation.

  “You know, the French invading and taking over the Eurostates and killing Jews…the Yanks hammering the hell out of our economy.”

  “It was the Germans.”

  “What?” Giles swigged the last of his chardonnay.

  “The Germans, I’m pretty sure it was the Germans who invaded everywhere.”

  “Whatever…I’m starting to sound like a devotee now, but whichever party you support we all agree on one thing. The Federation of Eurostates came about for a very good reason and without it we’d be totally…”

  “Dessert sir?” The waiter was back.

  “Pardon? Oh…sorry…banoffi pie…and cream, please.” Giles seemed momentarily thrown by the interruption. Steven wondered how banoffi pie fitted the description ‘light lunch’.

  “Not for me, thanks. You were saying…rather loudly…we’d be totally…?”

  “Loudly? Oh God…I’d started doing that thing again where I spout political gobbledygook. Do stop me if I do it again, it’s awfully embarrassing. I sound like some kind of deranged fanatic. I shall have to start looking for a different job, you know.”

  Steven smiled to hide his disappointment. Lunch, and a costly one at that, had barely aided his research. Furthermore Giles had reminded him of all the irritating reasons they had stopped socialising. He delved into his pocket for the medal. It was worth a try.

  “Any idea what this might be? I know your military history isn’t much better than mine, but you did some PR work with that junior defence minister before the election, didn’t you?”

  “Elton.” Giles sniggered, taking the medal between his carefully manicured fingers and rolling it beneath the light. “The right honourable Elton.”

  “I don’t remember his name being…”

  “It wasn’t. Elton because of the wig. He wore a dreadfully obvious wig. Where did you get this? I take it it’s connected to your little…scandal?”

  “I found it on the roadside, by the Jag.”

  “Naughty boy! Pilfering from the dead. You should be ashamed!”

  “It’s the only real clue I have.”

  “Poor you. Well, I can’t tell you much…only the obvious. It’s new…looks like it’s made of brass. I’d have thought most medals were gold or silver or something. The date could be significant…pre Eurostate but only just.”

  “What about the winged dagger…and the motto? Any ideas?”

  “You mean you don’t know?” Giles was genuinely surprised. “The S…A…S. Special Air Service. You’re a journalist and you’ve never heard of them?”

  “Is that an airline?” Giles laughed aloud. His banoffi pie arrived and he handed the medal back. Steven shoved it quickly back into his pocket.

  “I guess I shouldn’t be so surprised. They were disbanded after the Europact. I first heard about them through father. He kept telling me he ‘knew one or two’…” Giles mimicked the inverted commas, “…of them. They did security for him. Most of them went into security, personal protection stuff, or the Politguard after they were demobbed.”

  “So who were they?”

  “The stuff of legends.” Giles shovelled a large spoonful of pie into his mouth. Steven waited patiently for him to swallow enough to continue speaking. “I ended up doing a two-thousand word feature about the SAS when I was on The Western Mail. Some kind of anniversary thing the old duffers loved reading. They used to train in Wales…Brecon Beacons mostly…though they were based across the border in Hereford. You should have heard the way the duffers used to talk about them.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well…these boys apparently were the elite of the British Army, a bit like the American special forces, you know, Delta thingy.”

  “Delta Force. So they were commandos, you mean? Experts in survival techniques, stealth warfare, undercover operations and that kind of thing?

  “That’s right…the type of blokes you’d send in deep behind enemy lines to snuff out some mad dictator in the dead of night or blow up an airfield. They were feared the world over.”

  “And presumably if they we
re our equivalent of Delta Force, the identities of these soldiers would have been a closely guarded secret?”

  “Too right!” Giles gulped down another mouthful of pie. “They were all sworn to secrecy. None of them ever admitted they were…hold on…I can see what you’re getting at!” Giles waved his spoon across the table, a trickle of cream lining his bottom lip.

  “What I’m getting at, Giles…” Steven beamed proudly. “…is that this might not be such a low grade scandal after all. If this medal belonged to someone in that Jag, someone who served in the…SAS…”

  “A highly secretive regiment…bloody hell…Jesus!” Giles was quite animated now and Steven was growing alarmed at the attention he was generating. “I feel like a journalist again!”

  “Keep it down Giles!”

  “Sorry.” Giles no longer seemed interested in the remains of his banoffi pie. “Steve, I am sorry. If I hadn’t guzzled so much chardonnay I’d have realised as soon as I saw the medal. You could be onto something.” Another cigarette was produced from the silver case. “Want one?”

  “Better not. So this medal, definitely SAS.” Steven’s voice was barely a whisper.

  “Almost certain.” Giles was marginally louder.

  “Abamae and the date…some kind of covert operation, maybe?”

  “Very likely.”

  “And its owner?”

  “Very dead…it seems.”

  “So why would the police…or the MOD…want to keep it a secret that its owner was killed yesterday in a car crash? Pointless protecting his…or her identity now.”

  “Mmm.” Giles suddenly deflated. “You’re right. And the regiment has been disbanded now for the best part of a decade. It would be pointless.”

  “Unless…” It suddenly dawned. Lateral thinking, as Jerry always said.

  “Unless…” Giles’ eyes lit up. “God you’ve got me fascinated in your little mystery now. Unless what?”

  “Did you ever come across Abamae in your research on the SAS?”

  “No. Don’t think I’ve ever heard of it before. Spelt differently, it could be in Wales.”

  “And who were we at war with back then?”

  “Nobody…the Second Gulf War was before that and we weren’t really ‘at war’ with the Yanks…except in the economic sense, perhaps.”

  “So finding out what happened at Abamae might help explain the reasons for this cover up. It might not be so much the owner’s identity but their involvement in whatever happened there. What do you think?”

  “It sounds like a long shot to me.” Giles stubbed out his cigarette and scooped the last of his pie into his mouth.

  “But worth a try. Do you know anyone who might be able to shed some light?” Giles might be value for his lunch after all.

  “My successor at Elton’s office. He’s still a junior minister you know. He’ll have to lose that toupee before he makes it onto the front bench. That and one or two rather disgusting personal habits. I could put in a call before Daddy’s soiree. It would be interesting to find out, I guess.” Giles checked his watch. “Goodness. Is that really the time?”

  “Make the call for me Giles. Please.” Giles considered for a moment.

  “I shall do my best, I promise.” He smiled and stood to leave. “I guess there must still be a little journalist left in me yet.” He sniggered. “But don’t tell everyone!”

  “Here’s my card. My home and mobile numbers are on there. And here…” Steven handed him the three full-colour printouts, folded for decency. “Don’t look at these until your dinner’s gone down but see if you can get your mate in Elton’s office to ID the two faces and the uniform on the other one.”

  “Dinner, my dear boy, is what I shall be enjoying with Daddy’s Eaton chums tonight. That was lunch…and you should have learned the difference by now. Au revoir…as the Germans say.” He winked and was gone. Steven signalled for the bill.

  There was no sign of Giles by the time he reached the pavement outside, nearly 200 euros poorer. He stood for a moment and watched the Saturday afternoon traffic push its way along St Mary Street. Infuriating as he was, he hoped Giles had not missed his shuttle home. That call could make all the difference if Steven was to get his byline on a front page splash in time for Monday. He began to walk toward the bus station. All he could do now was wait.

  Steven paused at a corner newsagent, picking up a copy of the late edition. If he could have been bothered to cross the road to Thomson House he would have been given one free. He was momentarily tempted to buy a packet of cigarettes too, but the 15-euro price tag gave him all the resolve he needed.

  Menna’s crash story was tucked away on page three, his picture of the paramedic barely filling a top right hand corner beside the column of briefs. She had managed to get a few quotes from the bus driver’s widow and a statement from the bus company, but the story had not moved on a great deal since last night. Perhaps all that would change this evening.

  *

  Steven was asleep in the armchair, the television blaring, when Giles finally rang. He was dreaming of dining on sumptuous seafood and imported Australian wines. Far from being enjoyable, the feast was marred by his increasing concern about the identities of his fellow diners. He kept pausing to glance around and discover they were all watching him. It began to dawn on him they were Eurostate spies, closely observing him because they knew he was aware of their terrible secret. He was in a state of panic about what had happened to the pile of shells from the prawns he had consumed when the vidiphone rang.

  “Giles?” he blurted when he managed to stir himself enough to press ‘receive call’.

  “Steve…God, you look awful. Been hitting the bottle?” Giles’ soiree was clearly in full flow, judging by the background noise.

  “Dozed off. Got anywhere with our…” Steven thought of the watching eyes and missing prawn shells. “…inquiry?”

  “Nothing exciting I’m afraid. Even spoke to old Elton himself. He’s never heard of Abamae and he didn’t know anything about your accident.” Giles swigged from an oversized glass of red wine. “I showed him your delightful snapshots as well…faxed them through. Said he didn’t know any of the…faces.”

  “Was that wise? Speaking to…Elton, I mean. If this thing’s…”

  “You’re sounding paranoid now.” Giles laughed and drained his glass. “I doubt it would be of any concern to Elton. He’s not the sharpest tool in the toolbox. Anyway, I seem to have run dry so I must cut and run.”

  “But Giles…” Giles was looking over his shoulder, already bored with the conversation.

  “Sorry I wasn’t much help. I did try. Elton admitted he isn’t much of an expert on the SAS though and I didn’t want to push him to ask around…you know, in case. To be honest I’d guess it’s nothing more than a storm in a teacup.”

  Steven felt deflated. All he could think about was his lunchtime bill and how little he had gained for it. “Giles, he must have known something about the SAS. He is a bloody defence minister, even if he’s a junior one!” He felt angry.

  “Steve, I told you.” Giles ran a hand through his hair, as if ruffled. “The SAS were disbanded years ago. Whatever you’ve stumbled upon, it’s not likely to be the big story you’d hoped. I’m sorry. Anyway, thanks for lunch. It was great meeting up with you today. We must do it again sometime.”

  “Yeah…sure.” Steven was hardly listening. He was finding Giles’ nonchalance after a 200-euro luncheon difficult to digest. It was as though, because he had failed to gain any further information and missed out on a starring role, he could no longer be bothered to take an interest. “Sometime.”

  “Great. Call me, fix it up. Things are starting to warm up here now, so…”

  ‘Giles, you’re a complete and utter selfish bastard,’ thought Steven. “Yeah, better not keep you. Thanks…for trying.” It pained him to remain polite and he could have murdered for one of those cigarettes now. Where to now?

  “Cheers, Steve.” Giles was turning
away, his thumb no doubt hovering over the ‘end call’ button, when he suddenly looked back. His eyes focused with an unexpected seriousness that reminded Steven of the Giles of old, Giles the journalist. “Oh…I nearly forgot. He did start telling me about some ex SAS bloke who runs a pub in Cardiff. He’s called Heggie…doubt that’s his real name. Apparently he’s got quite a collection of SAS memorabilia and is something of an unofficial historian for the regiment.”

  There was something almost too casual about the way Giles had tagged this piece of information at the end, almost as an afterthought. Steven could have sworn he had been holding it back.

  “The pub’s called The Stirling Arms. Shouldn’t be too many in Cardiff. See you.” Steven was still puzzling about the abrupt switch from nonchalance as Giles added: “Oh…and take care.”

  “Thanks Giles.” But Giles had gone, his parting words hanging poignantly in the air.

  Steven shivered with the cold and cursed his out-of-sync heating system, making a mental note to contact the landlord again before the weekend was over. There was something vaguely ominous about Giles’ ‘take care’…something altogether serious and out of character. But a moment later it was forgotten. He had scrambled about the lounge until he found his keypad and, flicking the television to Internet, dialled up Yell.com. Another moment later he was on the vidiphone to The Stirling Arms in Canton.

  “Hi, is Heggie there?” The man who answered looked far too young and fresh-faced to have served with the Army, never mind an elite regiment of commandos. The bar area seemed surprisingly empty for a Saturday night.

  “No.” Abrupt and to the point. The barman waited, tapping his fingers impatiently though there was no apparent queue of customers.

  “Is that The Stirling Arms?”

  “No.”

  “Sorry, I must have misdialled…”