by Daniel Kemp
The last communication received at Box 850, presided over by the last King when he and the Prince met for their final time, five years previously, detailed the invasion of Afghanistan. It was a political decision, and one which Paulo had adamantly opposed in the declamation he made to the Kosygin reform group in which he held the most prominent beacon.
The era of stagnation of the Soviet economy was drawing to a close, after the group's proposals of decentralisation, away from heavy industry and into consumer goods was beginning to show results. The foreseeable drain that a war would cause on the resources that these improvements had led to, was not acceptable to Paulo. He would not allow himself to simply sit motionless and permit the wastage to occur. With the continuing narrowing of the Soviet barriers to commercialism, Paulo hoisted himself onto the advisory body that examined the credentials of each and every trade delegation that wished to expand into the Soviet Bloc. He manoeuvred his way on to the reception committee to greet the British trade delegation due to arrive in February of 1992.
He had trawled the lists of too many to count in the preceding years, never finding what he really needed, and not willing to compromise. The gambler in him was waiting for the one big hand. It showed its face in the September, when a list of new names appeared in Moscow Centre for appraisal. For days and nights he hung his hammock in their shadowy offices, cross-referencing files and every scrap of information he could find, in order to scratch away at the surface of the fertile shoot that he had at last found in his sieve, and would not budge.
Mr Jack Simmons was a short, overweight, moustached man, of questionable fashion sense. Once a Royal Air Force sergeant, then, on retirement, a convener in the Telecommunications Union and member of the Fabian Society, and now, since Thatcher's realignment of the share wealth of the UK, an entrepreneur who owned Surveillance Cameras Incorporated. Paulo singled him out for his special attention. Jack had been an old-style socialist, as he told Paulo on the penultimate night of his stay in Moscow. Having at last seen the light and truth of capitalism, he had abandoned the philosophy of his previous society, and his militant ways, for the one of outright private enterprise, and therefore the advancement of oneself in the creation of wealth for the betterment of those less fortunate.
“Since Thatcher, without all the red tape and needless regulations keeping you looking over your shoulder all the time, companies can grow unhindered. We are able to make more money than before, and to keep it. We can also choose which markets to chase, and where to diversify to make our profits. I've seen the error of my ways in following Socialism. What I've made for myself has helped to smooth the edges of life, if you know what I mean.
The portfolio that I presented to your equivalent to our Minister of Trade today contains details of all our security cameras, including our latest product: a lightweight unit with exceptional lens capabilities, high zoom, and wide-angled. It comes in all sizes, and there's nothing like it in the world. It can be automatically set on a random pattern, or operated manually as is conventional in most systems of today. It's won us many orders worldwide, even in the States, where it's fitted on all their satellites, and I'm hoping for more from here. As I make more money, so I can pay the workers more, or employ more, and still make profits. As the workforce grows, so does the whole economy, and so they buy more goods and pay more taxes.
Your countries ten-year plans, and all that nationalisation, simply doesn't work. You've got to give the workers what they want and that's money in their pockets and the choice of where to spend it.” His sermon was not needed; he preached to the converted. It was time for Paulo to strike.
“What is it that you really want of my country, Jack? Because, whatever it is, I can supply it,” Paulo temptingly offered. He had managed to entice Jack away from the main group of business men and government personnel to the exclusive Zurich bar, tucked discretely behind the Kremlin. It was normally the province of the well-heeled, haut monde of Soviet patronage, where the private rooms above were used for more intimate words and actions than these opulent but open surroundings could decently accommodate.
“That sounds like an attempt to bribe me, Yuri. I'm a simple man, and open to proposals. Money speaks volumes to me and my other half; I have mouths to fed at home and ambitions to fulfil. I want contracts, and as many as can be arranged. If you can do that…what would you want in return?” He was hooked, as Paulo had known he would be. He had chosen the two hostesses well, and not only for their ability to serve drinks.
“Nothing is beyond my reach. I wouldn't want much, Jack. Just gossip on some Fabian members past and present, and the up-and-coming ones as well. Members and devotees that might make a splash in the future…you know the sort. I'm reliably told that the girls can be very obliging and quite versatile, if I tell them to be. Oh, by the by, if you could see your way to ignore any disapproval that might be thrown up by the purchasers and installation of those cameras of yours, and turn a blind eye to some of the places I want them sold. I'd be very grateful. There are millions of places in the USSR, and beyond, where surveillance could be a top priority if I made it so.”
Paulo had his source, and his explicit photographs as well, as his way into the upper levels of Socialist Britain to use as he saw fit; or more pertinently, where Paulo saw the most advantage. They would be useful contacts for his previous employers in the secret offices, and to help his adopted England in its fight to regain the greatness that Maudlin personified.
At first, he offered his new friendship to those who sat in the dingy boxes of the KGB.
“I've got a finger in the UK Labour party, the opposition I know, but not forever in a democracy. Any use to you?” he asked.
“We have that avenue well-covered, Comrade Sergeyovitch. We have enough resources there already. Most are idealists and theologians who simply wear their red tie or red socks, but crave a knighthood or peerage too much to be good agents for us. We had one once who was ace. One who almost collapsed that special relationship that exists between the USA and the UK. Refused to allow British troops to support the Americans in Vietnam on our say-so, and told everyone who listened that it was in retribution for the Yanks' lack of nerve over Suez. It was his information that your 'Mother' confirmed all those years back, but since then we have had only the 'Ban the Bomb' enthusiasts, and not much more. How good is yours? Not much better, by the sound of it.”
Paulo was amazed. He stayed to chat with his comrades, thinking he would share a few beers, then maybe vodkas.
“They give away Knighthoods and peerages over there, then?” He asked, after a long conversation in which names of British sympathisers were freely disclosed to their one time co-worker.
“Yes, apparently so, if they do worthwhile works or bribe someone or have something over someone. You know all about those matters, Paulo, don't you?”
Oh yes I do, thank you, he thought.
He travelled on to the more sumptuous, spacious rooms of the members of the Politburo and served Jack Simmons on a platter to them instead, washed down by their wine.
“Well done, Korovin! Take your seat beside us where you belong. We will need friends on our journey towards openness and restructuring. Perhaps Mr Simmons' cameras can help watch the old guard for us, in case the going gets tough.' Said the balding man with the birthmark showing through his thinning hair.
With one eye on the prospect of a Knighthood and the other on the opportunities that a materialistically driven corrupt Soviet economy presented, Paulo's version encapsulated his existing schemes in the Middle East to help his adopted country and line his own pockets. He needed his 'Mother' to further one of his aims, and his own greed for the other.
The King is dead, long live the King!
George took over the mantle, alternating from collector to delivery boy, overcoming his original fear of flying by necessity. For the remainder of that year George made collections from the same premises, near Earl's Court Road, that Paulo had first used as an accommodating postal address;
only this time, the messages were from the more than satisfied Jack Simmons.
He visited Berlin several times and redirected other copies to Box 850, adding, as instructed, 'Garden' to the SIS copies; thereby swelling Dicky Blythe-Smith's file and causing consternation within the Civil Service ranks, and the Military.
Chapter Twenty-Three: Propagation Through Grafting
“What did your father ever tell you personally about George, Harry? How did he explain his being part of the furniture, and the special rights granted him?”
Judith and I, with Hector leading the way, had turned left from her home. We were heading away from the packaged breakfasts of the Common, and on our way to my favourite delights to be found nearby in Lachmere Road as Mrs Squires had reliably informed me, when I had complained to her of the fashionable virtual kind found in chic cafe's on the other side. I had already excited my appetite on some of her leftovers, and Hector could almost now speak in his admiration of her cooking. Judith was the only one of our number still in search of palatable satisfaction, other than what was edible. I was due to meet Sir David Haig in Whitehall that afternoon, and wanted a full stomach before, what might be, my execution.
“Very little…you've got to remember that we seldom met. Elliot was here in London, and I hated the place. All that congestion not only the traffic but the people as well, herded together like the cattle back home before they are carted off to market. Except I prefer to be around animals most of the time…they don't complain as much as people. It's gotten worse, if anything. Now there are tables and chairs outside everywhere you can't move, and if you stop for a tea or coffee, or, perish the thought, a meal, the stink of the diesel comes free. They should pay you to sit outside some of those places! Anyhow, he moved down here on a permanent basis when I was eleven and he must have been about thirty-eight. I imagine that he was still very active in his extra marital pursuits then because he wasn't seen much in Harrogate that I can recall. Grandfather Phillip was around in those days, hung on for another twenty years or so, but he had given up the bank by then. He asked me once how I got on with George, and it was he who told me that George was to join Elliot in London.”
“What did he say?” She asked, expectantly.
“Oh, I can't remember, Judith. I was going off to Eton and had other things on my mind. I know there was something about Maudlin stepping in to resolve a difficult situation, and him being a distant relative, but I never took much notice about it. He was a friend, and it was as simple as that to me. I didn't care where he came from. He did say that, on holidays, I would see George but other than that, his time was to be spent here with my father, and if there were no more brothers in the family then Edward would be the next in line for the banking role of the family. I do remember thinking that it would suit my youngest brother, as he always seemed to cry and scream when it came to sharing anything. Hated parting with things, hung on for dear life. Even a football…he'd run off with it, if he caught Maurice and I playing.”
“So, you didn't have much to do with George after that?” She persisted.
“No, nor Elliot. What is all this about, Judith? You don't seriously suspect George in all this, do you? You've been nagging on about him since yesterday. He wouldn't kill a fly…I've seen him avoid treading on ants! He really isn't capable, you know.”
We had stopped our walk and were looking directly at each other, as Hector needed his umpteenth lamppost and I was beginning to regret my decision of bringing my new doggy friend along.
“Never be surprised at being surprised, Harry,” she said loftily, as if she had invented the quotation.
“You're being silly, Mrs Meadows. Now, if the two of you wouldn't mind, I'd like my all-day breakfast, before I meet with your boss and have to listen to his verdict on my corrupt family and the sentence he wants to pass down on me.” I hoped that it was now the end of the conversation about George, but it wasn't to be.
“I'm sure it won't be that bad, Harry; only a few years in the Tower, I assume. Seriously though, how about after Haig we take a ministry car to Radlett, and you and I speak to Auntie Loti? Are you up for it?” she goaded me, and I wasn't in the mood to give her the last word.
“Sorry, can't make it. Must return home I've duties to see to. They've had to close the gates at the estate. There were too many virgins queueing, waiting for my return.”
Wishing that my imminent departure and the queue were true, I rudely read the sport pages of the Daily Mail as I fed myself and Hector, with the brooding Judith tutting at every mouthful of cholesterol-bursting hash browns that crossed my, otherwise closed, lips.
We returned the sluggish and sated Hector home, then tasted and smelled the delights of the London Underground system on our way to King Charles Street and the Foreign Office.
“Shall we drop the respected titles and adopt the 'tuo mode, Harry? Is that all right with you?”
“Certomente, perché no,” I replied, showing I, too, knew a little Italian. I accepted his hand as he crossed his suite and met us at the double doors of what would have passed for a reception room at many a palace. The walls were draped in portraits of Empire building individuals. Clive of India, Wolfe, Cook, Rhodes, and others I recognised from somewhere in my dim past. Hung there against unfamiliar backgrounds, along with memorabilia and trophies, gathered from around the world when Britain ruled it, covering every piece of furniture that filled this cluttered place and leaving no room for much else. I was, however, shocked to find a portrait of his infamous relative; Field Marshal Douglas Haig.
David Haig was in his late fifties and used glasses to read, putting these in his top jacket pocket as he proffered his greeting. Shorter than myself by about three or four inches, balding, and not carrying my excess bulk, he wore a brown suit, which I found disconcerting.
“Coffee, tea, or something a little stronger? Please take a chair, both of you. Good to see you again, Judith. Keeping Harry here busy, are you?” he asked, in a practised diplomatic way that needed no reply.
“Don't suppose you've got an Isle of Jura single malt floating around the building anywhere, have you?” I enquired, reckoning that I might as well be comfortable in my hour of need.
“Ah, forgot that! Had it delivered specially after Judith's memo. A large one I presume? And a coffee for you, Judith? Are you driving today, or tubing it?” he inquired, as he took his place behind the ostentatious desk that took up half of one wall, flanked either side by floor-to-ceiling windows with the same ill-fitting net curtains found in every ministerial office.
“Well, I was going to speak to you about that. We wanted to borrow a pool driver, and car. There is a lead I want to chase down in Hertfordshire.” Judith was not slow in coming forward with her request.
“Hmm…let's see how far we get first, shall we?” He replied.
So, this was where she had picked up the habit. Imitation either being a form of flattery or a sense of insecurity, which I was sure Judith did not suffer from.
He buzzed for the refreshments, and moments later a seductively attractive vision of womanhood appeared, no more than twenty-five and oozing sex appeal. Judith kicked me.
“Watch out, Harry! You'll need a bib…you're dribbling!” She was right, I almost was.
“Come now, Judith. We men have to have distractions, otherwise life would be too unbearable. Don't you agree, Harry?” David had noticed my reaction, and Judith's jibe.
“Where's the paperwork? I'll sign up now!” I laughingly replied, rubbing away my shame from the point where her foot had connected whilst feigning pain and injury. “Ouch, that's some kick you've got there, my sweet.”
With the goddess's departure, the room took on a more serious atmosphere as Judith, at David's request, began her report. She covered everything in fine detail, referring to her infamous book most often of her own volition, but occasionally after David's intervention, asking how she had arrived at certain conclusions. It was an interactive conversation between just the two of them, leaving me f
eeling the same as the faces staring from the walls: inanimate and lifeless. My past was being dissected, without a chance for complaint. After an eternity of dismembering the Paterson family with facts and assumptions, none of which I could refute or argue against, Judith's speculation reached out further than those previously discussed.
“I would like to hypothesise a bit here, and take a risk. Let's imagine that Paulo and Garden are the same man, and Tanya was never a Russian agent, she was Paulo's make believe one, created by him to cover her defection. The first question my theory throws up is - where would Paulo send Tanya to run to, the day she skipped away? My answer is: straight to Maudlin's front door.
Whatever information he gave the Kremlin came from elsewhere. Whether or not this was damaging to us is unclear, but based on the evidence of what he supplied us, all thoroughly substantiated and proven, I would say of little value. Let's, for the sake of my theory, say he gained prominence first in the KGB, and then in his political life through other means, against targets other than our own. We know that he is a resourceful person, careful and precise. We can also presume, with some certainty, that he is rich and has had, over the years, little chance to spend that money on anything other than buying influence and power.
He could not have existed all these years through bribery alone, people and enemies he would have used and made on his way up, he would have to eliminate. If you remember, there was conjecture over the death of a head of the KGB a good many years back, just when Paulo was establishing himself. A heart attack, they reported. They're not going to tell the world anything else, are they? Particularly if I'm right and he was murdered, or assassinated.
