Stanford stopped talking and concentrated on his coffee for a few moments before starting to muse again. “The thing is, you see, that if we just shut you down, it would be a huge waste. I mean we could slap your wrist and send you home, and the problem would end there. You could even tell Major Jamal what had happened to you; it wouldn’t make any difference. The old rogue would probably swap stories with you.
“On the other hand, this might just give us a lead into some of the nastiness that goes on behind the scenes in Tabriz. These reports about international terrorists operating out of the desert are not entirely moonshine, you know. There are some very dangerous characters lurking in the sand dunes, and the thought of them having mustard gas at their disposal sends shivers up the Government’s spine. In the right place, say a plane or an underground station - it doesn’t bear thinking about.
“I would like to do something. Throw a spanner into the works. But to do that, I need you to tell me everything; everything you can remember and probably a few things you can’t. At least that would get me started on the right foot and I’d have a chance of convincing my bosses.” He sat forward and looked straight into The Virgin’s eye. “What do you say? You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine, a bit of it anyway. We really do need your help.”
As Hobson had said, he really had no choice to make. Stanford was presumably on the side of the angels, and The Virgin had no particular loyalty to Major Jamal. Stanford produced several sheets of unlined paper and started to take him through the course of events in detail. He started with the Hash - he seemed to have met them somewhere else in the world and so did not raise an eyebrow - and went on to the way The Virgin lived in Sabah. He was particularly interested in the incident with the burnt soldiers being turned away from the hospital. “Probably mustard gas or something similar. Vesicants, that’s what they’re called. Blistering agents. You could easily confuse vapour or steam burns with mustard gas.” He was less interested in Dov Nagel. He had probably heard the full story on that already. Major Jamal’s part in the picture he wanted in great detail, even trying to reproduce the conversation word by word.
Questioning took a long time, especially as Stanford was taking notes in long hand. It was after ten when he looked at his watch, cursed and grabbed the phone. “Tom? Stanford here. Can you get us to Whitehall quickly? Good - we’re on our way.” He dropped the phone in its cradle. “Cartwright, we have to run. I’ll just tell the manager, and we’ll be off.”
They seemed to be using the same taxi, and it made slow work weaving through the crowded one-way system. “Er - are you going to tell me where we’re going?”
Stanford smiled. “We’re off to the heart of the British Government. At least, that’s how they like to see it. This is where it all happens, the people who turn the wheels. No, it’s quite fun really. I don’t come down here much normally, but the Private Secretary wants to see you. He takes these ideas into his head sometimes. He doesn’t have any real contact with what we do - thank God - but every now and then he likes to feel he’s in the swim. He’s heard about you, though. Your fax did the rounds before it got to us. Don’t worry. He’ll probably do most of the talking himself.”
“All this - all this running around and ordering the wrong chemicals - is that going to affect MacAllans? I mean, what are they going to think of me? If they think I’m a problem, they’ll just tip me over the side, believe me.”
“Oh, I expect we can do something about that. What nationality is MacAllans anyway? American, I suppose.”
“Well, they’re registered in the Bahamas but that’s just for tax purposes. They’re all-American at the top. Our regional manager is American.”
“Mr Steenken? Yes, well, don’t worry. I don’t think you’ll have any problems there.”
The cab pulled onto Parliament Square and round into Whitehall. Just before the Cenotaph, it turned left into a side street. Classic Purbeck limestone buildings stood on either side. “Have you ever been here? You’ll enjoy it. This is the old Colonial Office. We’re going to the India Rooms. It’s almost the way it must have been in the days when there we had an empire. I always expect to meet Curzon coming round the corner.”
Security was more relaxed here. A policeman watched them mount the steps and push through the revolving wooden door. Inside, The Virgin’s brief-case was inspected by a janitor who waved them through to a spiral staircase. It did not look grand at all. Even though it was stone-built with a marble balustrade, it seemed to be the back stairs. The lighting was poor and the stone walls grimy. At the first floor level an old-fashioned brown Bakelite light switch was crudely mounted at shoulder level. Stencilled in black paint beside it were the words ‘Remember the black-out’. Untouched since the war.
They stepped out into a wide corridor. Rich red carpet hissed beneath them. Dignified portraits of Georgian and Victorian giants looked down at their passage. Stanford ushered him into a conference room and left him alone. It was incredible. The Virgin sat at the huge mahogany table and looked around at the paintings. Generals, admirals, old colonial administrators. There was a translucent view over the Straits of Penang in front of him, with small native craft and large Indiamen. The Majesty of Empire still permeated the building.
The tall double door opened and in came Stanford leading an old, heavily built man in a dark suit. The man was silver-haired and majestic, as if constructed to live in these very rooms, but he moved with an old man’s concentration. “Cartwright, this is the Private Secretary. This is Cartwright, Sir.”
The Private Secretary took his place at the head of the table and gestured The Virgin to sit beside him. “So you’re stationed in Tabriz, Cartwright. Like it there?” He was examining The Virgin with blank watery eyes.
“Oh, it’s not too bad, Sir. We get along.” He could not remember when he had last called anyone ‘Sir’, but it just popped out naturally.
“Very good. Very good. Look, I’m afraid I can’t sit and chat with you today. I’m busy and Stanford tells me you’re only in town today. Never mind. Next time you can tell me a bit about what goes on out there. You could probably tell me a damn sight more than I get out of Stanford and his chums.” He screwed himself around to look at Stanford who was still standing. “Meant to be running the department and they tell me bugger-all most of the time. Only drag me in when there’s been some damn-fool cock-up.
“Anyway, don’t have time today, so it will have to wait. Cartwright, I’m very pleased at what Stanford has been saying about you. Nice to know some of the old spirit still exists out there, and people don’t only go overseas for the money. I’m happy to welcome you onto the team. I’m sure you’re just the sort of chap we need nowadays.”
Breathing heavily, he hauled himself to his feet and thrust a large paw out to The Virgin. “Well, good luck, young fellow. Do your best, and come and see me when you get back to London next. Always pleased to see you.” He turned and searched for the door. Stanford guided him out.
The Virgin was standing like a bumpkin in a magic show when Stanford returned. He opened his mouth to ask, but Stanford held a finger to his lips. “Later. Let’s get moving first.” Moments later they were walking out into the open air and looking for their tame cab. It came rolling up to meet them.
“Come on, Stanford. What’s going on?”
“Good, isn’t he? No, really. I’ve got a lot of respect for him. There’s a very sharp mind under all that, and you should see him chair meetings. He can really get things done when it suits him. And as for not knowing what’s going on... I’ve known him come out with things that only the angels could have overheard.”
It was not enough for The Virgin. “Yes, yes. But I don’t mean that. What’s all this about me joining the team, and being ‘the right sort of chap’? I felt like he was sending me out to the North-West Frontier.”
“He does that awfully well, doesn’t he?” His voice took on the Private Secretary’s gruffness “‘Very well, Henderson. That’s the job, and I’m
sure you’re the best man for it. Off you go and do your bit.’ ‘Thank you, Sir. I’ll give it a try. Goodbye. Or is it au revoir?’ ‘No, Henderson, it’s goodbye.’“ The mimicry was wicked and had The Virgin laughing in spite of himself.
- 8 -
Hobson took him to the MacAllans office. As they walked in, the receptionist looked up with surprise on her face. “Mr Cartwright! Mr Steenken was just asking for you, and I didn’t know you were in town. You’d better go in to him straight away - he seemed to be awfully keen to see you.” The Virgin left Hobson in reception and walked past the modern, glass-fronted hutches that passed as offices here. Inside men in shirt-sleeves and loosened ties were staring at monitors and typing continuously. There was little noise.
Ron had an office near the end of the corridor and it was a longer hutch than the rest, with a chrome and glass conference table at one end. He sat stretched out on a reclining chair behind a futuristic assembly of shelves that housed his writing desk, his telephones, fax and computers. He jumped up when he saw The Virgin and walked round to shake his hand.
“Hey, stranger! What are you doing in town? How are you, good? Come on in. I’ll just shut the door.” Ron was an ugly American. Short stumpy legs supported an extravagant belly. His creased face showed every sign of hard living and the quid of tobacco behind his bottom lip made him look like a dumb good ol’ boy. Within MacAllans everyone knew the appearance belied the fact. Ron concealed a sharp business mind beneath a Father Christmas image. He was not even from the southern States. He was from Boston, from a good family and with the education of a Brahmin. He had no more right to wear pointed cowboy boots than The Virgin. Not that that stopped him. He was wearing some repulsive mauve ostrich-skin boots today.
He closed the door to the corridor, and the one to his secretary’s office, and slid back behind his desk. “So; I had the United States ambassador to London call me today.” He waited for a comment and The Virgin made approving noises. The call had obviously made an impression.
“Boy, I don’t know what you’re doing and I don’t want to know. I just want to tell you I’m real proud of you. It ain’t every day that we get a chance to serve our countries like that, and I believe you’re a lucky man. You have any problems, anyways I can help out, you just give me a holler.”
The Virgin found his new role as an ace of espionage becoming an embarrassment. God alone knew what Ron was imagining, or how the ambassador had puffed things up, but it made The Virgin very uncomfortable.
“Well, it just sort of happened. I didn’t do anything...”
“That’s not the way I heard it. He said you were a gallant gentleman and he would take his hat off to you. That’s just the words he used. Take his hat off to you. So you just carry right on and keep helping them out. I’ll do everything I can to help you.”
“Did you happen to hear anything from Tom Forbes? It’s just they put the hard word on him to call me over to London, and he didn’t know what to do. I’m afraid I’m going to get dragged into a lot of questions, that’s all.”
Ron reached for the phone. “Tom? Yes, fine, fine. And you? OK, listen up. I’ve got Greg Cartwright with me here. Yes, from Tabriz. Now I want you to know that what he’s doing has my full approval, right? Yes - yes. I know. I know all about that. So just do whatever he asks and help him all you can - OK? Good. Good, thank you, I’m sending him down.”
He grinned at The Virgin. “Now old Tom thinks he’s got his pecker caught in his zip. Just run along and sort him out, will you? What are you doing for lunch?”
What was he doing for lunch? He thought for a moment and decided he would turn Ron down and take his chances that Elena would be free. “Well, actually, I’m being briefed all this afternoon and I fly back tomorrow.”
Ron looked at him with something touching affection. “Boy, I wish I had your luck. I’d have done just the same. You ever want anything handcarrying in to Tabriz, or anything like that, you just call, right?” The Virgin shook his hand and left before he got too sentimental.
Tom Forbes was no trouble at all. He did not even want to see Hobson. He rushed The Virgin through a list of new products coming onto the market and gave him a heavy position paper on the developing markets in Eastern Europe. “Tell Harris we spoke about Russia and that I told you to keep quiet about it all. If he has a problem he can call me. Anything else you need?”
The Virgin decided to push his luck. “Well, I’ll need to travel in and out a bit more now. Do you have any courses going?”
“Courses? Where do you want to go? What sort of courses?”
“Oh, anything on the technical/marketing side. And it doesn’t really matter where, as long as they’re outside Tabriz. The States would be real handy. In a couple of months time. Would that be possible?”
Tom was flicking through his diary. “There’s a sand control school in Houston. February 12th. You any good at sand control?”
“I’ve done some in Balikpapan, but that was a long time ago. That would be handy. We’ve got a chance of some sand control work coming up for TAMCO.”
“OK. And if you need more later in the year, give me a call. I suppose I’d better come and see your Mr Hobson.”
“He’s not mine. He’s an obnoxious little prick, but I guess you could shake his hand. I’ve got to run anyway.”
Hobson took him back to the office in a regular taxi. They had no sooner got there than they were sent out for a pub lunch. It seemed that he was now viewed as less of a risk. Stanford was ready for him when they returned.
“You’ve got to meet our Projects Manager. Edgar Crossman. He’s got some questions for you.”
Crossman’s office was a builder’s afterthought. It was reached by making a dog-leg at the end of the main corridor and dropping down two steps. It had a five-sided plan, and a fine view up the street. Crossman was a tall languid man. “Cartwright. I’m Crossman. Do sit down. Tea? How do you take it?” While they waited for his secretary to bring the tea, The Virgin watched him chatting with Stanford. He had feeling of not belonging. It was not only that the two men shared the same profession and knew each other well. They seemed to be members of a club, of a social caste that was not his own. He wondered if they were both ex-military and he was visiting the officers’ mess. Or did it go deeper than that, to the deep roots of the county class?
The tea was left by a motherly lady who passed round the cups, and left with the teaspoons and sugar-bowl. Crossman sat forward at his desk and cleared his throat.
“I’d like to make one thing quite clear from the beginning, Cartwright. Despite the impression the Private Secretary may have gained from my silver-tongued colleague here, we are only asking for a little co-operation from you. We would not like to think of you acting as, say, a representative. Or our man in Tabriz. Nothing like that. Is that how you understood it?
“Good. Right. So this is the situation as I see it. The Tabrizis have asked us to supply them with some mustard gas. We have intercepted their request and have decided to play along with it in order to penetrate their chemical weapons programme. Yes, Stanford?”
“That’s right.”
The Virgin was horrified. “You’re going to give them mustard gas? But that’s - that’s...”
“That would be unthinkable,” finished Crossman smoothly. “What we shall send will be very smelly, and rather explosive. Does that answer your question?”
How nice, thought The Virgin, ‘rather explosive’. But this would be loaded onto a ship chartered by MacAllans. “Hey, how explosive? This is going to be on our boat, don’t forget. It’s got to be safe or we’re not going to be able to handle it.”
“Yes. Yes, of course. Perhaps I gave the wrong impression. The material itself will be quite safe. And the container in which it travels. We will merely modify the container to provide a little surprise. A controllable surprise. But you’re anticipating my next question. How will it travel?”
“We normally ship out of Rotterdam. We charter a five thou
sand tonne vessel and fill it full of cement and chemicals and send it out. We usually have a few containers as well, either below decks or deck cargo. How big is the tank?”
Crossman did not get diverted. “So you would like us to send the material over to Rotterdam? I don’t think that’s possible. I dread to think what would happen to us if anyone suggested sending it on a passenger ferry. Can you divert the ship to pick it up? That would be the best answer.”
“I suppose so - but it will make things expensive. Where would you want to load it? Poole?”
Crossman looked at his colleague. “Does Poole have a harbour? Isn’t it one of those dreadful towns that you learn about in school? The ones where the harbour silts up and everything ends up miles inland?” Stanford did not know, and neither did The Virgin.
“Never mind; it will be somewhere around there. Southampton, Bournemouth, I think Weymouth is all pleasure boats nowadays.”
“How heavy is the tank?” asked The Virgin. “Are we going to need special cranes?”
“Ah. Yes. Now I’m in an area about which I know next to nothing. I was thinking of increasing the order size to five thousand litres, if you think your customers would accept it. Apparently that’s the size of the tank they would have to use anyway, so they may as well have it full. Let me see; that would be six and a half tonnes of chemical. How much does a tank weigh? When do you need special cranes?”
“What sort of tank are you talking about?”
Crossman opened a drawer and pulled out a loose file. He sat back and read it privately. “It says here it is a five thousand litres, double-insulated tank, with an integral scrubbing system. Transport frame as for standard twenty foot shipping container. Does that make sense?”
“I don’t know about the scrubbing system, but the standard container makes life easier. It’ll be eight tonnes all up, I guess. Maybe more if it’s a double tank. Say ten tonnes tops. That should be easy enough to handle. So what do you want from me?”
The Accidental Spy Page 9
