What Happened in Vienna, Jack?

by Daniel Kemp

  My father was a born and bred Londoner but my mother was Irish through and through, hence the name of Patrick, my red hair and my natural Irish accent which, after a few months of ironing away any flawed nuances, was perfect enough to get an invitation to Edward (Teddy) Greenlee's table in the Nag's Head pub, Cricklewood Lane one Thursday night, three months, more or less, to the day of my calling on Jack.

  Bill Hewitt, an Irish-Canadian, had unknowingly invited an undercover policeman into the heart of a conspiracy. The other three at the table that night: William O'Brien, Roy Murry (known as the Beret, which he wore come rain or come shine) and Ward Morrill, were all Irish by birth. Murry and Morrill were the two drivers. I had the innate endearing Irish ability of friendly conversation, aligned with good humour along with a deep pocket that my cover legend provided. My peripheral acceptance within the group was guaranteed as I worked at a second-hand quality car showroom where I could get legitimate cars without the need to 'ring' them. Henry Acre, who I met later, was notably different to the others. Whereas they all were vicious he had a criminal record more akin to a savage animal than any human, and that's what worried Bill.

  “He's going to shoot one of the guards regardless of the outcome, Pat. I can sense it. It's a statement he wants to make, not just pull off a robbery. Some time ago he told me of his Republican friends trying to drag me into the Provos, but I'm not a bomber. I'm a tea-leaf and a good one at that. I'll take my share then leg it back to Toronto away from politics, cos that's what turns him on in all of this. The money is less important to him than the statement. You mark my words!”

  On the strength of the assessment made by Hewitt, coupled with Acre's previous two convictions of grievous bodily harm, one using a firearm, we were instructed to shoot if the situation looked life-threatening. As I was the only one with a clear shot I followed the orders given by Detective Superintendent Ball, the head of C1, the flying squad.

  “Have you shot someone before, young Patrick? I only ask as you seem so unaffected by it all. As though it's quite a common occurrence in your everyday life as a police officer.” We were well into our second glass of throat-blistering liquid as Jack asked his question.

  “Mind if I smoke, Jack?”

  “Not at all! I'll give the ashtray an empty just for you.” On his return with a now sparkling clean one, I offered him a Dunhill cigarette which he accepted before I answered.

  “First time, Jack! And yes, it never touched me. My hands were as cold as ice as I squeezed that trigger, not one shake anywhere. How about you when you faced down that neo-Nazi in his black-shirted uniform on the steps of the public toilets in Whitechapel? Did you shake? Were you scared stiff?”

  “Different days then, Patrick, maybe we had different reactions too. Long forgotten times and best that way.”

  “You were the same age as me, were you not?”

  “I was twenty-three, I believe, at the time. So, if you're twenty-three, then, yes, I was.”

  “Signed on in any particular branch of the services, or waiting to join up with the Americans and win the war, Jack?”

  Now he did laugh, a high-pitched loud one at that. It suddenly struck me that I could not hear the sound of sex coming from below his flat but could hear the traffic on Shaftesbury Avenue, some fifty yards away.

  “If Barrington Trenchard has sent you on this mission of yours then I'm sure he must have filled in some details, Patrick. Are you fishing for bigger game in order to persuade me to visit Tottenham Court Road nick again, because there's really no need?”

  Another bottle of golden colour liquor appeared without a label attached, as our two glasses were refilled.

  “I was trying to get more background on you as you'll have my life in your hands. Not only would I like you to change your statement slightly, I need an introduction to someone you both know. Only Trenchard is on the same side of the fence with no camouflage to work behind nowadays.”

  “Who might that be then?” he asked as my packet of cigarettes was further used.

  “A Charlie Miller! I was told he is a top rank Met Police officer. My Mr Trenchard believes he knows the porn magazine trade in London inside out. Apparently every shop we raid is suddenly emptied of pornographic material before we arrive and it's Miller's department who organise the raids. Whoever he's in with is always one step ahead of us and we would like to stop that with your help. That was to be my next mission, hence the reason for the disguise. Not that it worked that well did it? We just need you to take out all reference to what I look like.”

  “A bit odd that your lot would expose you in such a high profile way just before another operation, don't you think?”

  “That's why I joined the police, Jack. To uphold the law. Mine's not to reason why.”

  “And why did Barrington Trenchard send you looking for me, do you think?”

  “The only reason I can think of is that he suspects you might know Miller and know his tricks.”

  “Hmm,” was the only reply as he sipped his drink before adding, “anything in it for me, this help you ask for?”

  “About the same reward you got from MI5 when they dispensed with your services, Jack. Nothing but our thanks.”

  “I did get the pension that you remarked on, Pat, plus I got the chair I'm sitting in.”

  “Strange gift, the chair I mean. Far from normal government furniture, I would have thought.”

  “And you wouldn't be wrong in that. It was presented to me when I came home from abroad and they billeted me at an outstation of Five in Pinner, Middlesex. It was part of my job to grade the pupils at the nearby Harrow School as to their prospects towards a career in the intelligence gathering industry.”

  “Funny shape for a chair,” I said, to which he made no comment.

  “Give me half an hour to dress, shave and what have you, then you can buy me dinner. I hope, but doubt, you've got a huge expense account as I'm as hungry as an old war horse, and the club I and Miller use doesn't open until nine o'clock. We'll have hours to fill with food and drink before you'll have a chance to meet one another. Go find Fifi on the floor below, tell her I send my avuncular love. Her real name is Gloria, comes every day from Bethnal Green. The door painted pink is hers. Likes a quick turnaround of clients, does my French neighbour, so she won't keep you long.” Again he laughed, but even more so when I declined that invitation.

  “Scared I might hear of your sexual prowess, or lack of it, are you!” he said as he left the room.

  “While you're away I'll try to think of reasons why you only empty ashtrays when you have a visitor. Not many call on you, I'm guessing,” I countered.

  Chapter Three

  Curzon Street

  My newly acquired unkempt friend had metamorphosed into a Savile Row-tailored dressed man about town in a purple chalk-striped linen suit with a red silk handkerchief in his jacket pocket when he next appeared.

  “Will this shatter the image you've formed about me, Patrick? I do hope so, otherwise I'll have nothing to smile about when I think of Barrington in his stiff collars and club ties. I too can put on a charade when required. Still wear that university club tie, does he? Not entitled to, you know. He never played rackets at Cambridge and as far as I know he never did play the game at all. It was his great-great-great-grandfather who played it whilst in the old Fleet Prison in 1832. He was put away for being unable to pay the debts of the company business, but Trenchard likes to gloss over that.”

  “I don't know much about the man, Jack.”

  “That I can believe, Patrick. Now's the time to fill that missing space in your education then. Come on, let's go taste some fine wine and talk about bent coppers.”

  “Do you know who Miller gets his money from?” I asked, genuinely surprised.

  “There are many more than just Miller on the take and I know most of them, maybe not all though. How much time have you done on the streets young man?”

  “None, Jack! I went straight into the 'Job' from university. I finish
ed my full tutorial, got the 'A's' I wanted then joined the police on a whim. Thought it would be much more exciting than delving into furtive minds or sitting in a sterile laboratory. I was told that I could return to Oxford for a Master's if things don't work out, but I want to right the wrongs of this world, Jack, before I settle into a sedentary career. The 'Job' shoved me into a section of the criminal records department at Scotland Yard from a shortened initiation course to profile criminals. It was a start. I did only a five-week stint at reading The Instruction Book. That was too easy to learn verbatim for me. The Kilburn job was my first. Did the firearms course at Gravesend, apt name when you think of it, before they let me loose. All of that's part of the reason for the C11 attachment. Trenchard wanted me on that security van heist, as he knew I could identify Acre and not just from photographs.”

  “You're very young to have been trained on firearms, Patrick.”

  “I didn't know guns had a discrimination policy against age.”

  “As far as I knew the Met did. Two years before you can play with them,” he replied, then went down a different track. “You said Fisher was your DI, did you not? Only we might run into some others from the Yard tonight. Thought about that at all, have you?”

  “I've never actually met Fisher, Jack. Only heard him on the phone and read his written orders. Been exclusively tied to Trenchard's desk since day one. He is the only serving officer that I've met at the Yard. I've been kept out of sight since joining. Never actually worn the uniform! This opportunity of going solo was put to me just after the interview board. I grabbed it with both hands. They assigned two physical training instructors from Hendon to meet with me twice weekly in an old railway shed outside King's Cross, but apart from the time I spent with them, I studied all I was given in a flat not far from here in Covent Garden. The car front where I now work is part of C11. Buried deep beyond anyone's knowledge, as far as I was told.”

  “Where's that apartment of yours?” he asked, rather quickly I thought.

  “Number six, Rose Street, Jack. Did you want an invitation?”

  “Did you rent it directly, or was it provided by someone?”

  “Came with the job. Trenchard sent me to a letting agency and then I rented it in my name.”

  “Who was on that board when you joined?”

  “Trenchard was one, but the other two I didn't know. Looked like civilian brass to me. I never had a formal introduction.”

  “Old Barrington certainly threw you in at the deep end, didn't he. It's not in my hands that your life lies, Patrick, it's in the hands of the intelligence set-up that you're wrapped up in. Personally, I wouldn't trust it, but I no longer play that game. As far as anyone is concerned I'm out socialising with the man who possibly saved my own life three days ago but I won't introduce you as that. I'd only say that you're a friend and leave it there. But if pressed, I wouldn't be wrong in saying that the man you shot could have shot me and others. The robbery has been spoken about in these parts. There's a very close knit society amongst the prostitutes and us layabouts. I have a reason to be out with you if I need one!

  You've got to understand something before we go on. What I know about people has come after donkey's years of listening to what I'm told. To them that tell the story, I'm just an old sop who likes a drink or two, easy on the eye and of no consequence. You're a stranger in a world where the only knowledge you have of it, has come from what you've read, fantasied about or been told. Soho is not just on the surface, Patrick, it goes a lot deeper than that. Now you've come to dig a hole into the soul of the sex trade. If you're successful you're likely to put a lot of people out of work. Afterwards, if you ever want to hide away where no one looks further than their own nose, then don't look for a farmhouse set in acres of open ground, hide in a city with plenty of noise, that's where you'll find the real silence.”

  It was he who fell silent as we left his apartment on the top floor of number twenty-six Romilly Street and walked north along Dean Street towards Soho Square. Then as we turned into a side street he spoke again.

  “I'm guessing here, Patrick, but did Trenchard recruit you at university with a whiter than white campaign speech? —Let's clean up the streets of London together, making it safe for the working man, my young intellectual friend. Paint the town white with an Irishman as the artist.”

  “Not quite as pretentious as that, Jack, but that was his stated purpose without the Irish bit. Frankly that's what enticed me to sign up. I hate dishonesty in any form. If I can help him achieve that aim, then why not try?” He didn't answer my question.

  “That club I mentioned earlier, as being used by Miller and others of his fraternity, is owned by a one-time friend of Trenchard's and a distant acquaintance of mine. A man known as Alhambra. That's not his real name, of course. Barrington knows it as do I, along with the majority of what used to be the intelligence community. Mind you, if the rumours are true, he's moved on and upwards to other things nowadays. Some in these parts say that it's him that runs the porn trade. That could be why his club is so popular, but I have no first-hand knowledge of that. Trenchard could well be intrigued by me telling you that name, or, he might just want to hide it away and ignore it. Be careful how you play it, Patrick. As I remember Trenchard has allies in very high places.”

  * * *

  “You off to the Ritz for the night, Jack, or on the pull?” asked a very beautiful woman, who Jack introduced as Amelia, as we entered a wine bar in Wardour Street.

  “If you are out looking for company then I'll take your arm. Oops, sorry, I didn't see your friend? He looks tasty!” she said before adding, “I'll take him off you when you've had your fill.”

  “My new lover, Amy! Keep your hands to yourself.”

  “Yeah, if either of you were that way inclined then I'm an elephant flying on a cloud.” Her long blonde hair trailing down her slender back was the last I saw of Amy, leaving me to admire her wiggle and shapely legs as she departed.

  “You two know each other well then, Jack?” I asked, rather unnecessarily.

  “Somewhat, yes! She owns this place along with half of Soho. Don't let that sensuous, female body fool you. She is a he, Pat! Goes by the name of Jimmy when the moon's asleep. Never go on first impressions alone, they can be painfully misleading.”

  I looked around but I could see no men in the bar; only women. Or were they women? Certainly the cleavage of the girl that brought our drinks over to the candlelit table Jack had selected in the corner facing the doorway had me fooled if she was not. I never asked, but the uncertainty didn't impinge on my imagination.

  “Have you a fetish for full ashtrays, Jack?” I asked, noticing the overflowing one on our table, at which he laughed before he explained.

  “My wife hated me smoking, even tried to force me to quit. I told her I would cut down, but never quite managed to. Whenever we were out, and I had to wait for her, I would sit at a table where there was a full ashtray so she wouldn't be able to count how many fags I'd smoked by the time she had finished her shopping. It's a habit I haven't been able to shake off. You used the word camouflage a little while ago, so call it that if you like.” He continued to laugh until the business of the evening was once more addressed.

  “What did Trenchard tell you about me, Pat?”

  “Nothing really from Trenchard. Just what I've told you: said he'd seen your name on the list of witnesses, recognised that distinctive signature of yours and knew you from the old days. That was it. I thought you may have been in the police until I followed his orders of visiting a building in Curzon Street, in Mayfair, where everyone I came across told me that was about to be closed down. I showed some guy in a uniform a letter from Trenchard and was allowed to view a file on you. It didn't tell me much either, other than you worked in the secret intelligence service during the war and for a bit after. It ran out of paper in 1948.”

  “I didn't work in the SIS, Pat, I worked for the likes of Barrington who worked in it. There is a difference. I never
went to the right schools, you see, nor lived in Guildford to become staff. I did the mundane that they were too busy talking about.”

  “Want to tell me how you started, Jack, because there's nothing in your file. A list was all I found. Date and place of birth, parents' names and your retirement date; June the first 1948,” he laughed.

  “Is that what it said? Even that's a lie! I did another five years after that. Not all that time for Five. I was pushed upstairs somewhere along the line, up a number to Six and sent abroad to Austria. It was when I came home from Vienna that they put me out to grass. I was married then, but the time abroad cost me my wife and the time back here cost me my children. Mary and I married in the autumn of 1944. I was twenty-five, with her being three years younger. George was born the year after and Mildred the following one. That was the year they started to send me away from London more and more. If they hadn't, then who knows how many kids I would have fathered that would have grown up to hate me.”

  There was no change registered on his face that I noticed nor any alteration in his voice that I detected. The sadness, if there was any, was swept away long ago.

  “Mary and I never got back together when I returned. I moved out and let life go on for them. In 1966, when she passed from this world, both my son and daughter emigrated without a word to me. We've never spoken to this day.”

  I was looking hard for some recognition of regret, some trace of human emotion that my psychological training could pick on and develop, but there simply was none. He had detached himself from the world that he had once lived in, in a way I had never thought possible. Work had been his love, coming first before any pangs of conscience about a destroyed passion of a once solid and tangible relationship. The unattainable and the touchable both ruined, but only one clung onto. It wasn't indifference, otherwise, he would never have broached the topic, nor apparent apathy, just self-control being demonstrated naturally and not for effect. What an asset for someone in the espionage game, I thought, and could not hide my juvenile admiration.