by Stan Mason
‘I’m sorry,’ she apologised, as I rubbed my wrists gently. ‘One can’t be too careful. I had to make sure you really were a newspaper reporter and not someone from a political organisation with sinister ideas.’
‘Are you going to play any more tricks like this?’ I asked in mock annoyance.
She laughed and relaxed again in the armchair. ‘The real name of The Rooter is Jack Berg. If you want to contact him, I’ll get him on the ‘phone. If he wants to give you his telephone number afterwards, that’s up to him.’
I found my cordless telephone on the floor near the settee and pushed it across to her. ‘There’s no time like the present,’ I remarked, urging her to make contact. She dialled a number and spoke to Berg, telling him about Strogoff and the incident at the People’s Palace, then she threw the instrument to me. Normally, I do my best work face to face with people. Everyone has a personality of their own and it reflects, giving off vibrations which I tend to pick up. I disliked using the telephone on such occasions because the impact is generally negative and clinical. ‘Can we meet and talk?’ I asked the man at the other end of the line. It was a short crisp conversation and we agreed to meet on the steps of St. Paul’s Cathedral the next day at six o’clock in the evening. He tempted me by mentioning a secret meeting he wanted me to attend, insisting he would tell me more about it when we met. I was pleased with Berg’s direct attitude. He sounded ready for action, like other East Enders, with no side, affectation or innuendo.
When the call ended, I discovered that Carrie had gone. For a moment I believed that she had slipped through my fingers and left the apartment. When I went into the bedroom, however, I found her sitting in the bed with the covers pulled up to her neck. ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked stupidly, wishing I had bitten my tongue rather than make such an idiotic comment.
‘A friend in need is a friend indeed,’ she commented with a smile touching the edges of her lips. ‘I reckon I owe you a favour for saving me from a fate worse than death.’
I shook my head slowly from side to side. ‘You don’t owe me your body,’ I told her. ‘I’m disappointed in you, Carrie. I thought you were a decent young woman with a lot of integrity. Do you always offer yourself to any man who helps you?’
She bridled at the assumption. ‘That’s a rotten thing to say!’ she snapped angrily. ‘I haven’t slept with anyone for over a year.’
‘Jack Berg?’
She hesitated for a moment. ‘Yes, if you must know. It was Jack Berg! Look, you don’t have to make a big deal out of it. If you feel nauseated or find me repulsive I’ll sleep on the couch.’ She paused to check my reaction. ‘There are two reasons why I’m waiting for you in this bed. Firstly, I never knew it before but getting beaten up seems to turn me on. I heard that it sometimes happens to people who witness a murder.’
‘And the second reason?’
‘I find you very groovy... and from the look of this place you obviously live alone. I’m warm, tender, feeling really turned on in this bed. The rest is up to you.’
I smiled at the simplicity with which she regarded life. It would be a pity to refuse the offer and disappoint her. Within twenty seconds I had stripped off my clothes and moved into the bed alongside her. She had a fine slender body, not well-endowed, but seasoned with the freshness of youth. A raging passion welled-up inside me as our naked bodies merged. For a moment, as lust flooded my brain, I felt the urge to take her firmly in my arms and relieve my frustration in a brutal manner. Then I thought about the many opportunities we would have to share a tender kind of love together if I behaved myself and acted sensibly. Acting against my better nature, I kissed her gently on the lips, neck and shoulders before turning away to reach for the remote control of the television set. ‘Look, I can’t take advantage of you in this way,’ I told her in the form of an apology. ‘Believe me, I want to very much, but Channel Four has dedicated this week to the memory of Humphrey Bogart and I’m following it closely. Last night they showed Casablanca. Tonight it’s The African Queen.’
I pressed the switch and tuned-in to the appropriate channel as she lay back on the pillows with a broad grin on her face. ‘I think I’ve heard everything now!’ she laughed. ‘How dare you prefer Humphrey Bogart to me!’ She put her arms around my waist and started to kiss my body in many places, rubbing her hands firmly over my flesh and down my spine. It was all too much for me. Although The African Queen would not be shown on television for another four years or more, it would have to wait. While the pain of punches inflicted on my ribs earlier that evening took their toll, I conceded I had a much more pressing engagement with a very lithe, willing, attractive woman! It served Barnaby right! To the victor go the spoils! He could rot in hospital for all I cared... while carnal lust swept through me with an attractive woman in my bed!
Chapter Three
We awoke very late the following morning. It was the first time I had slept so long for many years. However, Carrie had been very demanding and we didn’t really get to sleep until almost four o’clock. She made breakfast but it would be more correct to say it was eaten nearer the time normally reserved for lunch. I resolved some of her immediate problems by opening one of the wardrobes widely to offer her a selection of clothes my wife had left on her swift flight from our marriage. Fortunately, both women were of similar size so that . Carrie was able to discard her old jeans and worn woolly jumper and I was delighted to see her so pleased. We relaxed during the afternoon, sometimes in each other’s arms, until it was time to meet The Rooter.
Berg was not the kind of person one remembered. He could easily be missed or forgotten... even in a small crowd of people. Short, thin, with sparse hair, even at his young age, he was poorly dressed in a shoddy anorak and wore thick tortoise-shell spectacles which rested on the ridge of a long narrow nose. Above all, he gave the impression of being totally insignificant. I couldn’t understand what Carrie had seen in the man to bring herself to consider marrying him, but she was a generation ahead of me and that gap in time made all the difference. We climbed the steps of St. Paul’s Cathedral where she introduced me to the man. I shook his limp hand and wondered whether the effort of meeting him was worth all the trouble. Carrie thought otherwise and she made a huge attempt to glorify the record of her former fiance.
‘You wouldn’t believe how he secured the vital information which led to the capture of Heinrich Mauntner, the Nazi war criminal!’ she gushed, much to the young man’s embarrassment. ‘There was political pressure preventing the man from being extradited to Israel, so Jack worked out a very audacious ruse. He served papers on Mauntner to attend the Crown Court on a specific day relating to his plea to remain in Britain. Jack sent two men dressed in police uniforms to collect him. They drove him to the court in a police car and ushered him in.’
I drove deeply into my memory banks to recall the case but the index file of my mind drew a blank. ‘I don’t remember what happened to Mauntner,’ I admitted, still racking my brains.
‘Of course not,’ she continued enthusiastically. ‘He wasn’t taken into the court itself but to a large room in the next building through an entrance of the Crown Court. Jack arranged for it to be fitted out exactly like a courtroom and he employed actors to take the roles of the judge, jury and witnesses. They were all paid well so that the incident would remain a secret. As a result of this “hearing”, Mauntner broke down and gave information on five other Nazi war criminals, as well as numerous details previously absent from historic files. Jack had him sedated and taken to London Airport where he was put on an El-Al flight to Israel. That’s where he is at the moment. It saved the British Government a lot of money and everyone was satisfied... except Mauntner, of course.’
I stared at Berg with an element of surprise. He didn’t seem the kind of person who would get results of that kind. He had abducted a war criminal, tried him in a false court, obtained information sorely needed, and h
ad flown him from Britain without the authorities realising what was going on. ‘What would have happened had you been caught in the act?’ I asked him.
Berg smiled as if he knew the answer to all the secrets in the world. ‘Mr. Savage,’ he began, almost insolently, ‘one of the rules of the game is that you never do anything unless you’re absolutely positive you’re not going to get caught. The doctrine is that when in doubt... don’t!’
The man had a point there and I respected him for it. There were times in life when failure was not permissible. It was a matter of unerring judgement for specific tasks and, if one failed to match up to such accuracy, credibility was at serious risk. ‘Tell me about this secret meeting,’ I ventured, keeping my mind on the assignment. ‘What did you want to tell me about it?’
He walked down the steps of the Cathedral, obviously expecting us to follow him. Carrie took me by the arm and led me down eagerly. We walked a long distance down the road towards Cable Street without speaking and I became irritated by the lack of communication, although I presumed there was a good reason for the silence. Eventually, he stopped at a point where the three of us were alone and turned to face me.
‘I’ve heard of International Three Thousand, otherwise you wouldn’t be here,’ he began, staring deeply into my eyes, trying to fathom my thoughts. ‘There are eight cells covering the whole of Britain. The major one in the south-east is located here in an office across the road.’ He pointed a thin finger in the direction of a cafeteria and to the rooms above it. ‘The whole area’s seedy and depressed, and neither the police nor the authorities take much interest in local activities provided there’s no trouble. In any case, few people venture into this part of London at night, and it tends to escape attention.’ Berg swung his arm some ninety degrees to point to a decrepit old building which sported a large ill-drawn placard stating: “Assembly Rooms”. ‘That’s where they’ll come later,’ he told me. ‘This meeting will have the distinction of being the first trial held by the organisation in Britain. I’m particularly interested to see how far they will go.’
‘Trial?’ I echoed. ‘A trial is to be held here?’
‘A man will be tried for failing in his duty to provide information relating to the forces of NATO, and possibly selling those secrets to another power.’
‘NATO?’ I echoed with surprise. I was beginning to sound like a parrot at the revelation that an independent political organisation was privy to such sensitive information.
‘These people are in business for real. The offices may not look prestigious but it’s for real all right. They intend to capture Europe where the Third Reich failed. Only this time they’ll do it behind the smokescreen created by the European Community. While every nation in Europe is looking at each other trying to score points, they’ll come in from behind and assume control. Because of the nature of the integration of Europe, they’ll com in from behind.. By then it’ll be too late. Tonight is the first trial. In a way it’s a test of authority. I’m interested to find out how they handle it.’
‘But if it’s a secret society,’ I asked with concern, ‘how did you find out about it... how do we get in to see it?’
He gave me the same smile again. ‘Entry is by ticket only, and I happen to have three tickets.’
I didn’t pursue the matter. It would have done little good to pry. In any case, he wouldn’t reveal anything to me of value. I knew only that three members of the organisation had given up their tickets to allow us to take their places or Berg had forged them. I suddenly recognised this little man was accomplished at achieving results in practically everything he did.
It was an hour later when we entered the Assembly Rooms and handed our tickets to the woman at the door. There were a number of strong-arm men on guard and I recognised one of them as the man who had struck me at the People’s Palace the previous evening. Strangely enough, I wasn’t concerned too much for myself but I feared he might recognise Carrie and threaten her with physical violence again. However, at the moment we crossed the threshold, he turned to deal with some minor matter and we shuffled inside a little faster than intended to secure our entry.
The hall had been arranged to form a crude courtroom with the judges’ table, a dock, a jury, and a witness box. The jury was comprised of five people and they sat on a bench waiting patiently to hear the evidence. It wasn’t long before the hall was packed with people. Not only were all the seats taken, with men and women sitting tightly-bunched up to each other on the uncomfortable wooden benches, but they were also standing at the back and the sides of the hall. Carrie sat between Berg and myself and we waited expectantly for the proceedings to commence. At the edge of the stage, two seats had been set aside for the court recorders so that the evidence could be taken down in detail. They took their places and shuffled papers in nervous anticipation.
There was little delay because the triumvirate of judges walked promptly on to the stage. One of them faced the audience briefly to introduce himself. ‘My name is Conrad Hayle,’ he informed them, ‘the Minister of Justice for the south-east of England. Many of you will know my colleagues... Martin Glazer, the Minister of Police, and his brother Terry Glazer, the Minister of State. This evening we are going to hold the trial of Albert Henley who has failed in his duty.. The details will unfold as we continue.‘‘
Berg leaned across Carrie to whisper in my ear. ‘Terry Glazer’s extremely uncomfortable about this trial,’ he told me confidentially. ‘If it goes wrong, he’s the one they’ll blame. A proper trial would take days to resolve because of the weight of evidence required. This lot have only two hours at the most and they can’t afford to lose credibility. If they mess it up one hardly needs to guess how the members will take it. So they have to go for the kill. Whenever there’s a fight, everyone wants to see blood, and these people here tonight are no different.’
He was silenced by the people pressed close to us and I scanned the figure of the self-appointed Minister of State. If Berg was correct in his assumption, the verdict had been decided on well in advance, regardless of the evidence. Hayle gave the impression he was in total control of the situation, professional and efficient, and I felt he too had decided on the punishment to be meted out to the alleged offender. I had the feeling the accused would be found guilty whether he was innocent or not. A lamb to be sacrificed for the benefit of the credibility of the organisation.
Hayle took his seat demanding the defendant be presented to the court which was followed by a shuffling movement from some men standing at the side of the hall. A tall stocky young man was brought forward to the dock and I was disturbed at the flippancy of his manner. He acted as though he was participating in a college rag. I knew it to be far more serious. Well over six feet tall, he weighed about eighteen stone and towered above his accusers. I assumed he might be over-confident as a result of his physique. Normally a relatively quiet serious person, he used this occasion to wear a jovial smile expecting the incident to be highly amusing and entertaining.
‘Albert Henley,’ began Hayle, staring at his quarry with an icy expression. ‘Do you swear by all you believe to tell the truth?’
‘Isn’t the oath supposed to be sworn on the Holy Bible?’ questioned the accused.
‘There’s not much point,’ riposted the Minister of Justice. ‘If you intend to perjure yourself, swearing on the Bible isn’t going to make any difference. We rely on your word of honour, if it’s worth anything at all, and our own method of interrogation and judgement.’
‘Oh, I’m going to be interrogated am I?’ asked Henley cheekily, still wearing the same confident smile. ‘Who’s going to defend me?’
‘Why should you need someone to defend you?’ asked Martin Glazer sharply. ‘Surely you know whether you’re guilty of the allegation. Surely you can explain yourself clearly and concisely. You have a tongue in your head! I hope so because no one else will represent you. Third parties no
t involved only waste the time of the court with pointless arguments.’ He turned to Hayle and held out his hand for the sheet of paper containing the indictment. ‘Albert Henley, you are charged with offences concerning your failure to pass to us certain information... namely a comprehensive computer print-out, the contents of which are of paramount importance to our cause. The information is vital and it is understood it came into your possession.’ He lowered the sheet of paper and looked directly at the man in the dock. ‘How do you plead?’
Henley continued to smile as he listened to the charge and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Not guilty!’ he replied smartly, glancing casually at the faces of the five people constituting the jury.
Hayle was far from satisfied with Henley’s plea. ‘What do you mean you’re not guilty?’ he demanded. ‘You had the information in your possession, didn’t you? And you passed it to someone else, didn’t you? But you failed to produce it for the organisation you belong to as you promised on your initiation oath. Is that not the case?’
The accused ran his fingers nervously along the edge of the dock as his smile began to fade. ‘Yes, I agree. But I’m not guilty!’
‘For heaven’s sake!’ shouted Martin Glazer irritably. ‘You either failed in your duty or you succeeded! You can’t have it both ways! I’ll ask the question again and perhaps you’ll think more clearly this time. Do you plead guilty or not guilty?’
‘Not guilty!’
Terry Glazer shifted uneasily in his seat, beginning to imagine the trial was going to be a test of nerves.
‘Very well,’ cautioned the Minister of Police, ‘but if you’re wasting our time I’ll hold you in contempt of court.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Would you tell us where the computer print-out is at present and what you’ve done with it? In addition, would you tell the court whether you can furnish the said computer print-out at the present time. And tell us in your own words why the information was never presented.’
