Deep Blue

by Alan Judd

  ‘I accept responsibility. I’m sorry.’ Not for the first time, he was aware that he found apologising suspiciously easy, as if perhaps he didn’t care enough. Where Angus was concerned, he didn’t.

  ‘I shall write an addendum to your annual confidential report. I shall also request you be posted away from this section, as you were from Paris. My only regret is that you’re not still on probation.’

  Probation lasted three years, with permanent status conferred only at the end. Charles nodded. He wasn’t surprised. ‘Is there anything else?’

  He had meant that, if Angus had any further criticisms, they may as well be voiced now, but it was clear from Angus’s whitening face and knuckles that he interpreted it as insolence. For a few seconds he said nothing, then, in little more than a whisper, he said, ‘Get out of my office.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Present

  Simon Mall had a large office in Thames House with a river view, accessed via the private secretaries’ room, as was the DG’s office on the other side. Charles had asked his own private secretary, Elaine, to arrange his call on Simon for a time when Melanie Stokes was not in the building.

  ‘Took some doing,’ she said. ‘I had to pretend you wanted to see her too, make an appointment and then try to move it, which meant they had to say when she wasn’t around. Then I had to make another appointment with her and then cancel that, saying you’d pop in for a quick chat with Simon instead. They’re pretty fed up with me up there.’

  ‘You’ll be rewarded in heaven.’

  ‘I’d rather have lunch.’

  ‘Come up with me. You must have friends in the building you could push off with while I’m with Simon.’

  Meeting Simon always reminded Charles of the P.G. Wodehouse character who looked as if once in his life he had missed a train, and the thought had preyed upon him ever since. Since Michael Dunton’s heart attack and the imposition of Melanie Stokes his complexion had become as grey as his suit and his thin hair. ‘How are things with Melanie?’ asked Charles, cheerfully.

  Simon glanced warily at the closed door. ‘She’s moved into Michael’s office. It was always obvious that she thought of herself as DG but now other people are beginning to as well. It’s all I can do to keep everything from going to her.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got a story to tell which mustn’t on any account go to her.’ Simon’s frown deepened. ‘Don’t worry, it’s nothing that the Service has done or not done. The reason’s more to do with her.’ He had discussed the whole thing over dinner with Sarah the night before, telling her everything. It was more to clear his own mind than for anything she could contribute, since she had little knowledge of the people involved and none at all of those past events which he was convinced held the clue to what was happening now. Her questioning acted as a mental detergent and he emerged with his next step clarified: he should tell all to MI5 in order to alert them and formally request their help, despite the risk that it might get back to Melanie. That way, if they did help and kept it from her, all well and good; they had all the tools for the job, the statutory right to do it and it was much more their patch than his. If they did not and he acted unofficially, as he was prepared to do, he could at least argue to any subsequent inquiry that he had tried to follow proper procedures and been rebuffed.

  ‘The story starts with an old Russian case,’ he told Simon, ‘that became a joint case between both our services. Inconclusive and long dead now.’ He recounted everything to do with the Melburys, Josef and Federov. As he was finishing Simon had to take a call from the Metropolitan Police Commissioner complaining about MI5’s refusal to do something.

  Simon repeated the refusal and put down the phone with a sigh. ‘Always wanting us to do more than we can. If we agreed to investigate every instance of rhetorical Islamist extremism we’d have no time to look at terrorists actually planning attacks. We have to go for the crocodiles nearest the boat. If I’ve said that once I’ve said it a hundred times. Go on with your story, please. So nice to hear something historic. Quite restful, really.’ He smiled.

  ‘Well, now I’m afraid I have to bring you back to the present. I think some – one, anyway – of those involved before are planning the same thing again.’

  ‘But you never ascertained exactly what it was they were planning?’

  ‘True, but going back through the files I think I’ve worked out what it was or might have been. More or less, anyway. The difficulty, the political difficulty, is that the principal, the person most involved now as he was years ago, is Melanie’s partner, the journalist and Triple A activist James Micklethwaite. And that he seems to be doing it with someone on the far-out fringes of Triple A. Someone the Foreign Secretary’s SPAD says was kicked out of the SNP for wanting separation with violence.’

  Simon visibly stiffened at the mention of the SNP. As Charles continued, his tired face settled into a mask of judicious and contented non-commitment. When Charles finished he put his hands together, fingertip to fingertip as if in prayer, and said, ‘If you are right about what they intend – a big “If” – and if they manage it this time – which is by no means certain, given their performance last time – what do you suppose they want to do with it? Even in their wildest moments, Triple A and SNP renegades are not in the market for mass casualties, unlike the crocodiles we deal with every day.’

  ‘I’m not sure what they intend.’ In fact, Charles was pretty sure he knew, but if he told Simon and Simon still did not agree to take it on, his own freedom of action would be compromised. ‘That’s what we need to find out.’

  Simon shook his head. Reasons for inaction came easily to him. ‘I see your argument, Charles, and you’re right to be concerned, but essentially what you have is a theory, not evidence, and a theory about a possible aspiration, not a plot, not attack planning. And with the final bit – the aim, what they want to achieve – missing. Also, as you well know, we put all that political subversion stuff behind us long ago. We simply don’t do it now and if it amounts to law-breaking it’s for the police. Nor do we go anywhere near British political parties, however wild the outer fringes. So I’m afraid it’s a no-no.’ He clasped his hands and smiled, as if in celebration of an achievement. ‘Sorry, Charles.’

  It was what Charles had expected and he knew that argument would be futile. They discussed the terrorist threat for a while, with Simon saying that the UK was due an attack. Charles enquired after Michael Dunton, the DG; the heart bypass had been a success, he was expected home shortly, convalescence would be at least six months, he was talking of returning to work but it was not known whether he would.

  Elaine was waiting for him downstairs. ‘Good meeting?’

  ‘Objective achieved. Good lunch?’

  ‘Lovely lunch. An old friend who joined with me then transferred here and now runs one of their A4 – surveillance – sections. Sounds fun. Odd hours, though.’

  They were back in Croydon in time for the weekly main board meeting, at which Elaine took the minutes. ‘Message from Sarah,’ she said as they were about to go in. ‘She says please call. It’s about what you were discussing last night.’

  ‘I’ll catch you up.’

  Sarah was busy and brief. ‘Deep Blue, your Deep Blue. I think I know where it’s kept now, the one in current use, anyway. I was going through some of our industrial injuries claims and came across a reference to it. It’s on an industrial estate outside Newcastle. I’ll bring the address home, shall I?’

  After the meeting he rang Sue in MI5, but it was one of her non-working days. He persisted and was put through to her at home. ‘D’you know anyone at Northumberland SB? If not, could you tell me the best way to contact them. Informally.’

  She chuckled. ‘Don’t give up, do you? As a matter of fact, I do. So do you. H/SB is Bob Shea, whom we dealt with all those years ago, remember? He was new to it, then. Mind you, we all were.’

  The 1980s

  He remembered Bob clearly, a young SB officer from Durha
m. The file recorded that staff shortages meant that Cleveland Police SB were temporarily housed at that time with Northumbria Police, and they had to travel to Newcastle to see him. Police HQ was outside the city, a collection of large detached older houses built around a green. They had once comprised a children’s home and SB were allocated two attic bedrooms.

  ‘Jim’s on leave and Rob’s on a course,’ said the fresh-faced Bob. ‘So you’ll have to make do with the new boy, I’m afraid. Tea, coffee?’

  Sue had described their business by telegram before they left London for Newcastle. ‘James Micklethwaite is still at home in Hartlepool as far as we know. At least, he was when we left. Trouble is, he’s not on live monitoring so we have to wait for his line to be transcribed. And we’ve no idea where the Melburys are. They rang to get the price and times of returns to Hartlepool but didn’t book. Made no hotel booking, either. So we’ve assumed they’re here anyway and that they’re meeting James. Most unlikely that they’re staying with him given the efforts they’ve made to keep their links clandestine.’

  Bob made a note on his pad. ‘We can easily check hotels. Are they likely to use that name?’

  ‘No indication so far of their using other identities. Is it possible to put anyone on to James Micklethwaite?’

  ‘Well, there’s only me and I’m afraid he might remember me. I arrested him a couple of years ago before I joined the Branch. He was on a peace demo outside the Vickers works here in Newcastle. Chucked a brick at a police horse, let off with a caution. But we had a bit of an argy-bargy in the van, so he’d probably remember me. Cocky bugger.’

  They agreed that Charles and Sue would try to find out whether he was at home. Sue checked with her office that there had been no further activity on his line. ‘We’d better find a hotel for ourselves,’ said Charles.

  ‘Not till we know where the Melburys are staying, if anywhere. Don’t want them in the room next door. They saw me at your place, remember.’

  ‘You need some wheels,’ said Bob. ‘I could run you down there to have a quick look at his place but you couldn’t hang around without a car. It’s quite a distance anyway. I’ll take you now to a car-hire place we use and we can drive down in convoy.’

  Later, they waited in a hired blue Triumph Acclaim, out of sight of James’s ground-floor windows but within sight of the entrance to his block of Hartlepool flats. Their cruise past had not revealed whether he was in and they had decided against risking a wrong-number call to check.

  ‘Who’s this other bloke you asked Bob to check hotels for?’ asked Sue. ‘The foreign one. How many operations are you doing today?’

  ‘A missing Greek,’ Charles explained.

  ‘No wonder your boss was angry. There’s Bob.’

  The arrangement was that if Bob had anything to report he’d cruise past in the opposite direction in his unmarked police Sierra and they’d follow him to the Co-op car park a couple of miles away.

  ‘The Melburys are booked into the hotel where you stayed with your foreign visitors,’ said Bob. ‘Three nights, usual amount of luggage. Quite chatty at reception, he was, anyway. Said they were hiring a car and doing a bit of walking on the moors. Your other friend, the Greek one, is still booked in too though they haven’t seen much of him. Not worried because they reckon the Foreign Office is paying. What d’you reckon he’s up to?’

  ‘Probably looking for a lady-friend in the Roast Beef&Frills.’

  ‘Well, if he can’t find one there he’s in a bad way. Or out of money. It may be that’s where the Melburys have gone to eat. They left on foot half an hour ago, saying they were going to eat somewhere local. I can check that out for you if you like. See if your Romeo’s there too.’

  They cruised past James’s flat before parking again. It was dark by now and there was one light on in the flat, which meant nothing.

  ‘He doesn’t have a car, does he?’ Sue asked.

  ‘A brown Allegro, he mentioned it, I remember now. Just got it, second-hand. But I never saw it and don’t know the number.’

  She stared at him. ‘Why didn’t you say so, you chump? There was one earlier, parked with those other cars on his side of the road. V-registered, I think, so not new. We could have asked Bob to check the Roast Beef&Frills car park.’

  He held up his hands. ‘Might as well go and check it ourselves. Mea culpa.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  They spotted the brown Allegro near the entrance to the car park and parked as far away from it as possible. They couldn’t see Bob’s car. ‘Hope he hasn’t gone back to look for us,’ said Sue.

  ‘He can’t have been here that long and may have parked elsewhere. I’ll take a chance and poke my head inside.’

  ‘Don’t forget your wig and moustache. You lot always carry them, don’t you?’

  The foyer was disappointingly empty so he attached himself to a group of four studying the menu outside the restaurant on the right. The bar was on the left, impossible to see in without entering. When the group moved on to the restaurant he tagged along behind them until he had a view of the tables. Neither the Melburys nor James were there. He took another chance and crossed reception to the bar entrance, where he paused. Bob was at the bar with his back to Charles, talking to the barman. There was no point risking going farther, since Bob would know whether they were there, so he walked briskly out, crossing the car park to the street and reflecting, not for the first time, how difficult it was to do anything even mildly clandestine without feeling and looking as if you were doing something worse, such as reconnoitring on behalf of an IRA bombing team.

  Bob’s Sierra was parked across the road near a bus-stop. Charles waited as if for a bus until Bob returned, then approached him. Bob started. ‘Christ, didn’t see you there. Jump in. Sorry about the baby clutter.’ He threw a tiny blue glove and a plastic rattle on to the back seat. ‘They’re in the bar, the Melburys and our lad Jim. It was just the Melburys at first, there when I got there; I reckoned it must be them because the barman – old friend, as it were – thought they were American. I was going to sit near them but was pre-empted by another couple, luckily because two minutes later in comes our lad to join them. Fortunately, I was still at the bar and he didn’t see me, fairly sure he didn’t, anyway. He sits down with them without getting a drink, then after about a minute they all get up and go into the restaurant. The barman told me they’d booked a table for three and he could fix us a window table close by if we want. But we’re all a bit too well known, aren’t we?’

  Charles thought. ‘If we could find my missing Greek, we could use him.’

  ‘Would he be any good?’

  ‘Not by himself. We’d need to put Sue with him if she’s up for it.’

  They walked back to the Acclaim. Charles explained to Sue. ‘But how could I?’ she said. ‘They’ve met me. On the stairs in your flat.’

  Charles sensed Bob registering that. ‘Only that once and fleetingly. People often don’t recognise people out of context. And you’ve had your hair cut since then.’

  ‘Nice of you to notice.’

  ‘And you could put it up, couldn’t you? Do something with it, anyway.’

  She looked doubtful. ‘What’s he like, your Greek friend?’

  ‘Just your sort.’

  He found Mikolas, as expected, in the club part of the establishment. He was at a table with a woman, not one Charles recognised from the other night but similarly attired. His bag was on the bench next to him and he had not shaved. His expression when he saw Charles was mingled consternation and appeasement.

  Charles smiled reassuringly. ‘Mikolas, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine who wants to have dinner with you.’

  ‘No, I have—’

  ‘This gentleman has booked his dinner with me,’ said the woman. ‘He’s a regular, he comes here every night.’

  Charles slipped a twenty-pound note beneath her champagne glass. ‘He’s booked next door as well. Come on, Mikolas.’

/>   Mikolas shook his head. ‘No, I stay here, I—’

  ‘There’s another lady waiting for you. She’s a publisher. She wants to hear about your book.’

  Ten minutes later, Mikolas and Sue were at the window table near the Melburys and James. Table separation, which professional habit had made for Charles the determining criterion in restaurant choice, was not good; which meant it was good for listeners. Both tables could be seen from the car park.

  Sue had acquiesced without enthusiasm. ‘But there’s no guarantee they’re going to discuss their dastardly plans, whatever they are, over dinner, is there? And the fact that they’re meeting in public now is either bad tradecraft or it suggests they’re not trying to hide anything. Not here, anyway. And if I’ve got to chat up your Greek friend at the same time – what’s his English like? And what does he think I am, a tart or a publisher?’

  ‘Both, probably.’

  ‘Well, if he thinks there’s going to be any après-ski he’s got another think coming.’ She was getting out of the car as she spoke. ‘I’ll get you back for this, Charles Thoroughgood. You wait.’

  ‘Hang on, we need to agree where we’re to meet afterwards. You’d better drop him back at his hotel—’

  ‘I’m not staying there.’

  ‘. . . and I’ll find somewhere for us to stay.’

  ‘I know a place,’ said Bob. ‘I know the manager.’

  ‘And now it’s raining and I haven’t got an umbrella,’said Sue.

  The hotel was a faded low-rise 1960s block overlooking the docks and a building site. ‘No point in you hanging around as well unless you’ve got no home to go to,’ Charles told Bob.

  Bob raised his eyebrows. ‘Say that again. I’m already in trouble for working late. She thinks I do it for fun, as if I’m having a bit of hookey, like. I daren’t tell her one of you’s a woman, never hear the last of it. Give you a call first thing.’

  Charles checked the rooms Bob had arranged for them then sat in reception flicking through the day’s papers. His overnight bag and book were in the boot of the hire car. The dining room had plastic tables and chairs, loud music and two diners, so when the rain left off he decided to walk into town to eat. The only people in the wet streets seemed to be drinkers hurrying from one pub to the next. He lingered outside several, which were either too busy or deserted and unappetising, until the return of the rain drove him into a Chinese restaurant. He emerged bloated and unsatisfied an hour later. The rain fell steadily as he trudged back to the hotel, where he read the adverts in the local paper until roused by Sue.