1990

by Wilfred Greatorex

  Skardon stepped into the witness box, looking almost distinguished in the best Savile Row could produce.

  'Your name is Herbert Skardon?'

  'Yes.'

  'You are the Controller of the Public Control Department?'

  'Yes.'

  The Public Prosecutor looked conspiratorial. 'Without disclosing official secrets, can you tell us the present scale of illegal emigration?'

  The Controller consulted some notes before tersely outlining that the numbers of illegal emigrants had increased from 937 to 11,000 in the past two years.

  'This evil traffic in people is organised by both mercenaries and idealists?' asked the Counsel.

  'Idealists?' snapped the PCD boss. 'Dissidents.'

  'Dissidents then,' the lawyer agreed hastily.

  'Mainly. That's why the penalties this court can impose are greater than for those convicted of carrying out this trade for gain,' Herbert Skardon explained. 'And the accused today? Kyle is a persistent enemy of the State, Prosecutor.'

  The journalist glanced quickly at his legal adviser, but the man made no move to protest and the Controller continued, uninterrupted.

  'He has delusions that freedom means licence - both as journalist and dissident. My department has shown extreme patience.'

  'Thank you, Mr Skardon.'

  The judges looked wooden as Kyle's advocate rose, diffidently.

  'Mr Skardon, do you regard any critic of your department as an enemy of the State suitable for treatment?'

  'I'm very tolerant,' the other replied, inspecting the man pointedly, as though marking his name on some mental blacklist for future reference.

  Defence Counsel sat down hurriedly and Herbert Skardon returned to his official seat behind the State Prosecutor as Delly Lomas entered the stand, publicly confirming her name and position.

  'It has been among your duties to observe the anti-State activities of this man?' the Prosecutor began.

  'He has helped us from time to time,' she admitted.

  'And often hindered?'

  She nodded.

  'Is it a fact that for certain periods, days on end, his movements cannot be accounted for?'

  He received a reproving glance before she replied, 'I'm not at liberty to discuss, even in this Court, our checks on citizens' movements.'

  'All the same he does disappear. And those disappearances often coincide with the illegal exit of forbidden emigrants?' the lawyer persisted.

  'Yes.'

  'Your deposition listing dates, times, and names of groups of defectors is with this Court?' he queried.

  'Classified information,' she warned.

  Her eyes flickered in Kyle's direction as the Prosecutor gave the document reference to the judges, before turning his attention back to her.

  'You made a thorough computer check on this man?'

  'Yes,' she agreed.

  Kyle had always known the risk he took in their relationship and she had never concealed it. Yet intimate images punctuated his view of her testifying against him now, and he felt betrayed.

  'Vickers' descriptions of the man who got him out...' the State's Counsel was saying. 'This traitor known to the more juvenile sections of the American Press as Pimpernel 1990 - these descriptions tallied with what you know of this man?'

  The woman shook her head. 'They were the opposite in almost every detail. It was some of the quotes which tallied.'

  'Exactly?'

  'Almost word for word.'

  'Thank you, Miss Lomas.' He turned and bowed smugly to the chairman. 'I doubt if any further questioning will prove necessary.'

  Kyle's defence lawyer stood up and glowered at his opponent before moving to confront the woman Deputy Controller.

  'I have a copy of those Vickers quotes, Witness, the ones you say match those of Kyle. Are you relying on memory? Or did you tape them at the time?'

  Delly Lomas looked uncomfortable and threw another quick glance in the journalist's direction. The perspex dock was like a shop window in which the accused was enclosed yet could be seen right down to the shoes. It was designed deliberately to make those who stood there feel exposed and insecure.

  'You posed as a friend of his. A very close friend?' Defence counsel was pressing.

  She denied it.

  'Over a considerable time,' he insisted.

  'You said posed. I was a friend... am,' she claimed.

  'By the standards of the PCD?' he sneered.

  There was a stir in Court and the chairman leant forward, angrily. 'That will do.'

  The State Prosecutor stood up and Skardon growled at Henry Tasker, 'That lawyer's gone too far. He's one for the list.' The Deputy Controller made a margin note.

  'If my colleague has finished?' the Prosecutor had stepped forward, as the other retreated red-faced. 'My witnesses are available for recall... Doctor Alan Vickers.'

  All the participants in the case turned to watch the young doctor ushered in to take the stand. He looked perturbed and flushed, refusing to meet Kyle's eye.

  His first answers were muttered inaudibly so that the chairman directed, sternly, 'Speak up, Witness.'

  The Prosecutor paced the floor, movie-style. 'You were an illegal emigrant.'

  Alan Vickers shifted slightly. 'Yes.' He seemed almost ashamed.

  'You have come home to your country because your conscience impels you to tell the truth?' was the next question.

  'If there were any longer an oath, I would swear it,' the witness avowed.

  The State Counsel chuckled and surveyed the listeners in the public section. 'You are old-fashioned, doctor. But well-meaning. You felt for your country.'

  Vickers stood rigidly straight. 'I felt for my wife and child.' Suddenly, he was hard-eyed and off programme. Hyper-sensitive to official atmosphere, everyone in Court knew it and a faint flurry ran through the room.

  'We sympathise,' the lawyer tried to salvage the situation. 'We knew you were apart.'

  'Still are. The PCD gave them exit visas last night and they flew out right away,' the young man announced, airily. 'I spoke to my wife at a friend's house in New York two hours ago.'

  'I see,' the Prosecutor was disconcerted. This was not the performance he had been promised.

  'I agreed to come over and give evidence on condition they were let out,' Vickers explained before he could be stopped.

  'That's not something for this Court, Doctor,' his examiner asserted, desperately. 'What matters is that, when you left this country, you had no exit visa?'

  'Right.'

  'And you were helped out illegally?'

  'Obviously. I'm no evasion expert,' the witness pointed out, laconically.

  There was obviously no point in delaying the crux of the proceedings any longer.

  'Do you recognise anyone in this Court?' he was asked.

  Doctor Alan Vickers scanned the room. His eyes rested on Delly Lomas.

  'I know her...' he said, then they moved slowly across to the figure of Kyle. 'And him.'

  'In what way?'

  'I met Miss Lomas at the PCD headquarters when I tried for visas,' he outlined. 'And Kyle at the Ombudsman's Court, when I was turned down on appeal.'

  'And then?' The interrogator was eager.

  'Then what?' the doctor seemed puzzled.

  'Kyle helped you?'

  'He wrote a few lines, that's all,' the man answered. 'No - it wasn't him.'

  There was instant stillness and the State Prosecutor looked stunned.

  'You're sure? Be careful,' he warned.

  'I've just told you,' Vickers declared, coldly. 'My eyes are perfect and my memory's sharp. I don't know the name of Pimpernel 1990, but it wasn't him.'

  The lawyer blinked helplessly and moved as though to sit down. Skardon tapped him sharply on the shoulder and whispered, and he turned back with renewed severity.

  'Perjury is a serious matter, Witness.' The blackmail was almost tangible.

  'What are you suggesting?' the other looked amused.

>   'The State is trying to be benevolent, Witness,' the Public Prosecutor ground out, powerfully. 'I am advised it would not wish to hold you in this country till the case is re-tried, which could be some weeks hence.' There was a long and menacing pause before he added, 'Especially as your family is now in America.'

  Alan Vickers scowled. 'It... you... the PCD... can't hold me...' he asserted, heavily; then reached into his pocket and brought out a small, black box. With a gesture of victory he held it up for all to see. It was a passport. 'I'm now a citizen of the United States...'

  The communal gasp echoed and was followed by a confusion of murmurs and comments. Kyle threw a wink at the American and Brett, as Vickers concluded, 'I came here of my own free will. I will leave the same way.' He glared at Skardon, Lomas and Tasker. 'And let the PCD try locking me up and extracting phoney confessions!'

  The judges were on their feet. The simulated air of informality had vanished.

  'Guards! Clear the Court! Clear the Court!' the chairman was shouting in near panic. 'Press and public must leave the Court now!'

  A body of men in paramilitary uniforms materialised and began pushing everyone towards the exits. Kyle leant against the dock frame, eyes closed as he released a long, slow breath. Then, looking over warmly to Vickers, Dave Brett and the American, he gave a huge smile to his wife and child, before catching sight of Delly Lomas making her way towards him. His eyes froze and the smile switched off. She hesitated, then turned away.

  It was a good day, sunshine, girls in summer dresses. London buzzed colourfully, almost as it had done in the old days when tourists had flocked to the city. Kyle was jaunty, bouncing up the steps and unconscious of the noise his shoes made ringing on the stone as he crossed the dim interior.

  'Good afternoon,' he said, cheerfully, peering into the box.

  'One up to you, Kyle. Don't stay for the next round.' A pair of eyes glinted in the gloom. Old Faceless sounded serious. 'Skardon wants to skin you. He's furious over that Court humiliation. It shouldn't happen to the PCD, and he's incensed - pardon, the word slipped out,' the voice almost smiled, '... that you've resumed your dig into the ruins of our incorruptible Minister of Trade. He doesn't blink any more and looks like he's smiling when he isn't.' There was an ominous pause. 'My advice is to get out, Kyle, while the going's good.'

  The newsman's feelings had deflated during this speech. 'I'm not running,' he answered, stubbornly.

  'You'll not be walking either, if some of our backroom experts get to you.' Old Faceless was impatient. Suddenly his eyes focused beyond Kyle, who turned and saw Delly Lomas on the far side of the church, softly crossing the vast space towards them.

  'I must be slipping,' he muttered, apologetically. 'I left my bug at the office and ditched two followers.'

  'If it has to be the day of judgement, I'm in the right place, Kyle.' That was what he lived about Old Faceless, a man whose humour never gave way.

  He moved hastily to intercept the PCD deputy controller.

  'I didn't know you'd gone religious.' She was trying to appear detached, but her eyes searched his face, anxiously.

  'I'm giving it a try,' he shrugged, looking bored with her.

  'You should take the right taxi when you commune with God.'

  So that was how she'd traced him. It was getting tougher. PCD spies really were everywhere. His face betrayed nothing.

  'Thanks for the tip. I thought maybe your surveillance was on spiritual contact. Anyway, what's this? Guilt?'

  'I had to, Kyle.' She touched his arm in appeal. 'I had to.'

  He moved back. 'I know. You're only doing your job.' The tone was bitterly sarcastic.

  'Tasker was out to crucify you on a much more serious charge - undermining the security of the State,' the woman stressed. 'Indefinite psychiatric treatment in one of the ARCs without the option. I couldn't think of you in one of those hellpits.'

  He gazed into her face with bleak eyes. 'I can't think of anybody in 'em. That's the difference.'

  'Get out, Kyle, while you can,' she pleaded, urgently.

  A wave of hostility grabbed him. 'That a threat?'

  'A friend's warning.' Her eyes were dark with sincerity.

  'Friend!' he exclaimed, jerking away to begin walking between the pews towards the church door. Delly Lomas bit her lip.

  'Our people put Vickers on Concorde an hour ago. One-way to New York.'

  'They'd have had a job to do any different,' he commented. 'Shouldn't you be thinking of emigration yourself? After that fiasco in Court?'

  'Skardon's a credit-snatcher.' She was complacent. 'He took the credit for your prosecution.'

  He stopped to face her again and said, firmly, 'It was your trick, that.'

  'But he grabbed the credit, prematurely - and threw away an awful lot of State Krugerrands when Nichols took up your floors,' she continued, as though he had not interrupted. 'He's under pressure, not me. And getting nastier with it.' Her hand gripped his arm again. 'Please get out, Kyle.'

  He shook his head and promised, 'I'll see you out.'

  All at once she shot him a quick, sly glance and spun round the way they had come, studying the confessional in the shadows.

  'Let's see if I can talk away my guilt,' she declared, already crossing swiftly towards it.

  Unable to stop her, he followed in slow despair. She reached it and stared in. The box was empty.

  Delly Lomas, Deputy Controller of the PCD, swung back, her face a mixture of frustration, desire and anger.

  'Pity,' she murmured.

  With a last look of contempt, Kyle turned and walked away.