Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1

by Ian St. James

  Twomey remained unperturbed. If he was worried sick about the whole situation nobody would have guessed. Everything about him suggested calm confidence. He accepted that the Marisa was a British registered ship, but pointed out that it had been nearer France than Britain when it was boarded. He spoke of the man, Hayes, certainly a British subject, but one whose business interests included making electronic devices for French security forces, and whose knowledge of the Marisa's cargo had been gained undoubtedly not in England but in Marseilles. He drew attention to the feet that Suzy Katoul was a French citizen of an Arab mother and that her first communication had been postmarked Tripoli and sent to the department's cover in Malta. And Katoul purported to represent something called the Deir Yassin Memorial, and whatever that was Deir Yassin was certainly not within the United Kingdom, but within the borders of modern-day Israel, like a skilful boxer taking a back street slugger apart, Twomey piled up the points until the international ramifications of the affair were endless.

  Davies's scowl deepened. "We might be a good deal wiser now if Hayes had been called in for questioning at the outset."

  Ross bit his lip, waiting for Twomey to answer, but surprisingly the Brigadier conceded the point. "I quite agree," he said.

  "The key witness." Davies warmed to his theme with Welsh fervour, like a barrister at a murder trial. "A man known to possess classified information. A man known to be running prostitutes - known to be a blackmailer—"

  "Suspected certainly," Twomey interjected mildly. "But known?"

  "Known to threaten the very existence of the United Kingdom," Davies thundered. "Allowed to go free! It's positively criminal. Criminal irresponsibility of the kind—"

  "Oh, I say," Twomey protested. "For any security department to—"

  "Mr. Chairman, may I be permitted a question?"

  Ross craned his neck. The man who had spoken was dressed in civilian clothes as was everyone else, but his manner marked him for a soldier. A British soldier, Ross noted from his clipped speech as the man took advantage of Davies's hesitation to put a question to Twomey. "Once you suspected Hayes, Brigadier - what steps did you take?"

  Twomey looked surprised. "Why, the only ones open to me, of course. My department has no independent authority within the United Kingdom. I passed a request to Scotland Yard for them to place this man under surveillance."

  "And when did you do that?" asked the soldier.

  "On Wednesday morning."

  "And where was Hayes at that time? Do you know?"

  "In his London office," Twomey replied without hesitation. "Two of our people were maintaining temporary observation - quite unofficial you understand - and they handed over to Scotland Yard officers at 11:42 a.m. I believe I have a copy of their report if anyone would—"

  "Thank you Brigadier," the soldier's face was expressionless. "I don't think we'll need that for the moment." He turned back to Davies, "Thank you, Mr. Chairman."

  Ross hid a grin behind his hand as he watched the flush creep across Davies's face. It was a put-up job. Anticipating Davies's attack, Twomey had ambushed him.

  "Bound to happen," Davies recovered with a politician's skill. "Whenever the interests of two departments overlap it creates confusion." He glared baleful; around the table before launching his own counterattack 'What I want to know is what the hell you're doing about it, Brigadier?"

  Twomey puffed his pipe. "With due respect, Mr. Chairman, a good deal of that must remain secret. Even from this committee." He smiled thinly, as if goading Davies to challenge his right to withhold information. Only when no such challenge came did he continue: "But certain conclusions are inescapable. Obviously the first is that a political organisation purporting to be something other than a national entity has possession of a nuclear device. I say purporting because although a number of organisations operating outside of international law have considerable financial resources, none as yet has the scientific know-how necessary to produce an atomic bomb, or so our combined intelligence reports tell us. Assuming that to be so, we can only conclude that a foreign government has sold a bomb or bombs to Katoul, or is, in fact, controlling the operation for its own purposes."

  Smothered gasps of astonishment swelled to mutters of speculation, all of which Twomey ignored as he scraped his pipe into the nearest ashtray. When all comment had subsided he said, "I'm rather inclined to dismiss the idea of a government selling a nuclear device. Any State with the resources to develop its own nuclear weaponry is unlikely to be so hard up financially that it has to sell those weapons for cash. Thus my suggestion is that Katoul is merely the front for some nation hostile to the West."

  "Jesus Christ!" the CIA man broke in. "You mean this is a Russian attack?"

  "I didn't say that," Twomey corrected smoothly. "All I'm doing - at this juncture - is to ask you to accept a certain line of argument."

  "Pointing to the Russians," the CIA man said.

  Davies coughed importantly. "If we accept the intelligence reports, Brigadier, we have little choice but to agree with your conclusions."

  "You doubt the intelligence reports?" Twomey's apparent surprise cloaked another trap.

  "I only see the yellows," Davies backed off. "Not individual reports. That being so—"

  "Then you doubt the digests?" Twomey's voice hardened as he jerked the hook.

  Davies abandoned a lost cause and blustered back to attack. "What we all want to know, Brigadier, is what in hell's name you're doing about this. The PM will want to know—"

  "The PM had my report an hour ago," Twomey said coldly. "I am instructed to discuss only certain of my conclusions with this committee along with an outline of some of the defensive measures taken."

  Davies's face burned and the Welsh lilt vanished entirely. "Then get on with it, will you. I'm due back in London for lunch and I imagine you've other things to do apart from talk to us."

  Ross watched Davies wilt under Twomey's glacial stare and felt his admiration swell to unqualified proportions. Yes, he conceded, there were times when having a cold-eyed s.o.b. for a boss paid dividends.

  Twomey turned back to the meeting. "Eight countries are known to have the bomb, and at least four more are suspected of having it. Not one of them is Arab, yet whoever we're up against has chosen Katoul - a known supporter of the Palestinian cause - to be the front runner. What promises have been made to her - or whether she even knows that she is being used - are things we can only guess at. But that she is not our real enemy I for one have no doubt." He sucked on his empty pipe as if waiting for a question. When none came he said, "A test explosion can mean only one thing. Blackmail. They've demonstrated that they've got the bomb and will no doubt go on to claim to have produced it with our plutonium - thus still further disguising their real identity. The problem is that so long as the identity of the blackmailer eludes us, so does the identity of the victim."

  It was left to Thompson to break the silence. "Surely, Brigadier," he demurred, "the very name of Katoul's outfit suggests the victim will be Israel."

  Twomey raised his eyebrows. "If you wished to threaten Israel, would you choose to demonstrate your strength a thousand miles away from her borders?"

  "Is distance important in this context?"

  "Perhaps not - but if your intention was to blackmail Israel, surely you'd make your intention known to your victim, not to a member of a European security organisation ."

  "You're suggesting that the victim will be a European country?"

  "I think it's more than a possibility."

  Davies snorted. "And I think you're like a little lost sheep, Brigadier. With no idea who we're up against or what they want. Or even of what their next move will be."

  "On the contrary," Twomey replied quickly. "Their next move is entirely predictable. Like any other blackmailer, they'll make their demands known to us."

  "While we're dazzled by the glare of annihilation," snapped Davies, trying to win back lost ground, "like frightened rabbits."

  "Blac
kmailers never kill their victims, Mr. Davies," Twomey's smile was like the onset of winter. "They merely try to frighten them."

  Davies snorted. "It would be less frightening if we heard what defensive measures you've taken."

  "The PM will be discussing the matter fully at the Bonn summit tomorrow - or even tonight, since I believe all of the participants arrive there this evening. My recommendations include putting all NATO forces on standby prior to Red Alert and that extra security precautions be taken at all ports of entry throughout Europe. All cargo in transit will be subjected to Geiger counter tests for radiation and—"

  "You think they'll move the bomb by car?" Davies was astonished.

  "Why not? Three years ago Russian agents did just that. They stole a Nike missile from the USAF base at Karlsruhr and drove three hundred miles across Germany with the tip of the missile sticking through the back window."

  "But a nuclear bomb?"

  Twomey shrugged. "Nike missiles are fitted with nuclear warheads."

  Davies was still incredulous. "They're going to move a nuclear bomb around Europe?"

  "They already have done. And to demonstrate off Scotland can only mean one thing in my mind," Twomey paused. "That the victim will be a European city."

  "You think they're going to position it?" Davies persisted, "like leaving a bomb in a supermarket?"

  "It would be the most effective way."

  "Why not simply fire a missile?"

  "Many reasons, but perhaps the most obvious is the most important. The countries of Western Europe have lived under the missile threat for twenty years. The source of any missile launched against Western Europe would be identified within seconds. Retaliation would be almost instantaneous." Twomey fumbled with his tobacco pouch. "Whereas if the blackmailers were to claim the bomb is already in position?"

  "You mean it could be in position now?"

  "The one off Scotland was."

  "But - but do we have any proof that they've got another bomb?"

  "What would be the point of demonstrating the first one if they hadn't?"

  Davies struggled for an answer, then ventured, "To make us believe they've got another one."

  "Bluff you mean? Are you prepared to call their hand, Mr. Davies?" Twomey spoke with less personal antagonism than before. The mood of the meeting had changed, even Davies sensed that. The personal feud between the two men was now of no consequence. The appalling prospect of Twomey's theory swamped the mind of every man there, but only the soldier wanted to spell out the details.

  "Let's get this straight, Brigadier," he said. "You're suggesting that Katoul's organisation will place the bomb and make certain demands on a Western government. Then if those demands are not met, they will explode the bomb."

  Twomey nodded. "Something like that."

  "Holy shit," said the CIA man. "And you're going to comb all Europe for a bomb the size of a suitcase?"

  "A ten megaton bomb would be something larger than that," Twomey corrected. "But still highly transportable."

  "And it could be anywhere?" The. CIA man shook his head.

  "Why ten megaton?" somebody else asked.

  "An assumption of course," Twomey admitted. "But it equates to the kind of material which should have been on the Marisa, and if that's the story—"

  "What other defensive measures have been taken?" Davies butted in.

  "Customs and Excise teams all over Europe have been strengthened with men drafted in from other security organisations. Border checks on travellers and cargo will be carried out with unprecedented thoroughness. Internally each country will be mounting vigorous campaigns against all people suspected of being connected with terrorist or dissident groups. An entire program of activity is being coordinated to come into effect at midnight tonight. Every police force in Europe will be engaged in the biggest manhunt ever carried out—"

  "The biggest bloody cock-up," Davies said. "Geiger counters at ports of entry—"

  "Are being rushed into position now," Twomey barely paused. "As from midnight, all freight moving across Europe will be subjected to tests for radiation at every national frontier."

  "There'll be uproar from the press," somebody remarked.

  Twomey shook his head. "The Geiger counters will be designated X-ray devices similar to those already in use at airports."

  "But is there to be a statement to the press?" the questioner persisted.

  Twomey frowned. "I hope not. On the face of it nothing unusual will be happening - there's no need for the public at large to know—"

  "They'll know all right," Davies barked. "Can you imagine the slowdown this will cause at ports and border crossings?"

  "With three times the number of men handling the traffic?" Twomey countered. "Granted there'll be some delays, but hopefully none that will become noticeable for at least the next few days."

  "Is that how long we've got?" someone asked.

  "God alone knows," Twomey sighed. "God and Suzy Katoul—and whoever's running her. But if you ask me to guess, I'd say there's one person in this room who will know the answer to that quite soon."

  They looked at him curiously, half expecting him to claim that distinction for himself. But he turned to the man behind his right shoulder. "Major Ross appears to be at one end of the channel along which Katoul has chosen to communicate."

  Ross remained impassive in the face of the scrutiny accorded to him. Someone asked, "And you expect the Major to hear within the next few days?"

  "Perhaps even within the next few hours," Twomey said wearily, and for the first time that morning some of the strain showed in his tired expression.

  "Hours?" the CIA man was badly shaken. "That makes the problem more than European. I'm sure I don't need to remind you gentlemen, but the President of the United States arrives in Bonn this evening for the summit conference."

  Twomey nodded. "As well as the political heads of Britain and France, and Japan and Canada."

  The information was digested in silence for a minute, then Thompson said quietly, "Suddenly, Brigadier, your theory about the bomb being in Europe makes a hell of a lot more sense."

  1100 Saturday

  Mick Malone's back hurt. "My bloody back's killing me," he complained to the empty cab and then laughed aloud at the truth of it. But the whole truth was that after driving for almost two hours his back ached more than he had anticipated. He squirmed in the seat to allow the pillow to slide an inch lower, telling himself that for twenty thousand pounds a man should be ready to drive to hell and back. He chuckled. "Or at least halfway."

  He checked his watch. He was on time. The wipers flicked back and forth across the windscreen while beneath him the huge wheels rolled relentlessly onward. Reilly would make contact soon. Mick smiled at the thought. Now there was a cautious man. Somewhere between the factory and Limerick Reilly would make contact, and that was all Mick knew. But wasn't that Reilly all over? Never tell a man more than he needs to know - just in case. Just in case the poor bastard ends up in Holy Cross like Steve Cassidy.

  Left at Limerick Junction, twenty miles to go. Through the lush green hills of the Golden Vale where grazed the fattest cows in all the world. Nineteen miles to go. Eighteen. The road filled up with traffic delayed by roadworks and thinned out again on the other side. Mick checked his wing mirror and watched the old Ford ease out into the traffic flow three cars back. Wasn't that the same car he had seen in Mallow? Perhaps and perhaps not, but it was the same shade of blue with a dent in the offside wing. Seventeen miles to go and a signpost told him it was another mile to Pallas Glean. The Ford pulled out, passing the other cars and then Mick's truck with a quick burst of speed. It tucked in in front of him and Mick touched his brakes lightly as he gauged the gap between them. A cut-out board was slotted into the Ford's rear window to conceal any view of the interior. A cut-out board which suddenly said "Follow me" in thin strips of red neon. The message blinked on and off three times and then stayed off for good. Mick chuckled - Reilly had made contac
t.

  Through Pallas Glean, left off the main road, right and then left again. Country lanes, an old tractor straddling the road until the Ford's horn blared to make it pull over. A bend, a turning, a gap in the hedge, a farmyard and two enormous barns with the doors gaping open. The Ford drove into the first barn and Mick followed, the gloom of the place engulfing him as the doors quickly closed behind.

  Reilly climbed out of the Ford's passenger seat and walked back to the truck, grinning hugely. "All right, Mick? Time for a bit of a blow before the run down to Limerick."

  They crossed the concrete floor, stepping around an oil drum and some coiled ropes, and skirting an old horse box sitting lopsided on a broken axle. It was gloomy in the barn, a dozen bare bulbs strung so high in the roof that their light barely reached the floor. Gloomy and cold, Mick thought, missing the warmth of the cab. He followed Reilly toward an office at the back which was no more than a cube of cement blocks done over with a coat of whitewash. But the light was better in there, it splashed out through the window and threw a long yellow finger across the concrete from the open door. Reilly entered and Mick followed.

  The man startled him. Ay-rabs Reilly had said, and if Mick had found a dozen squatting on the floor smoking a hookah he wouldn't have been more surprised. But this man wore a well-cut suit and looked like a prosperous businessman. Tall and dark-haired, with sharp watchful eyes in a face that looked more tanned than brown. Mick shook his hand and sensed the piercing scrutiny of those clever eyes. The man never introduced himself, but then Mick had not expected he would. Reilly's friends rarely did.

  "Your condition has been explained to me," the man said quietly.

  "Condition?" Mick warmed his backside over the paraffin stove and turned the word over in his mind. He misunderstood it to begin with, but then as the man's meaning dawned on him it amused him. "Condition is it?" he grinned. "If the doctor says I'm pregnant then I'm having it, and we'll have no wicked talk of abortions."

  Nobody smiled, not even Reilly. The tall man eyed Mick's sallow complexion and yellow-tinged eyes with obvious misgivings. "Your substitution has caused us to alter our plans," he said. "To allow for your - illness."