Hollis seemed to make up his mind about something and came over to perch himself on the corner of Malcolm’s desk. ‘Look, I shouldn’t tell you this, but the Elesmere-Elliott bill was torn up because you ran smack-bang into a legitimate MI6 operation. Really hush-hush stuff. I hope that makes you feel a little bit better.’
‘If there is a legitimate reason to pass military intelligence to an enemy, it doesn’t leap readily to mind,’ Malcolm said acidy. ‘If what I uncovered was a legitimate operation, Roger, why wasn’t I simply indoctrinated?’
Hollis grimaced. ‘You know I can’t answer that question, Malcolm,’ he said. ‘I’ve said too much as it is. But I do feel that you deserve to know that that there were sound operational reasons for the decision to stop the bill.’ Then he got up and extended a hand. ‘No hard feelings? And you will take a break?’
Malcolm pretended not to see the proffered hand, continuing to stare past Hollis at the desk Ann Last had occupied. They had obviously indoctrinated her. Presumably they trusted her.
Or perhaps she was stupid, and they’d felt it safe to feed her a line they knew he’d never accept. Either way, it settled nothing. Except that one way or another he had lost his only ally.
The numbness took about a week to wear off. He came in to the office every day, pushed silly bits of paper from his in-tray to his out-tray, then take his hat from the bentwood stand and wander home. The only time he felt even half alive was at the Salamat Makan, where he now dined every evening, sitting very upright, very sober, at his favourite table. He didn’t feel worthy of his cigars, and saved them up, three each night, so that soon he had quite a pile in his humidor.
And then one day the dam of his indifference burst wide open. He woke up crying, his pillow soaked with tears, his voice hoarse from sobbing in his sleep. Had he really been reduced to this? An empty man in an empty world, alone and going nowhere? Everything he had ever done judged worthless and chucked out on the rubbish tip?
He sat on the edge of his bed in the cruel grey light of dawn and looked at the gun in its worn leather holster lying on the night table. He had not worn it for days, despite his promise to himself to wear it until he had done his duty.
He rubbed his hands wearily over his face. What had gone wrong? He had once been so sure where his duty lay, but somehow he had lost his way.
Fear. It had been fear that had turned him from his duty, turned him into an empty shell of the man he had once been. Fear of the men in white coats, fear of the wards full of cackling madmen, fear of being tied down to a bed while they gave him shock treatment. Fear of being laughed at by his colleagues.
He stood up abruptly. Nothing could be as bad as this, he thought. Nothing.
He picked up the holster and strapped it on over his pyjamas. A symbolic gesture, but it gave him a feeling of being alive, of being himself again. He had promised to kill Denis Elesmere-Elliott, and he would carry out that promise. Whatever the risks, whatever the consequences.
It was a Saturday, and he began to put his plan into operation that very day. He took his forged documents and his secret cache of money, and hired a car in his false name. He bought a series of large-scale ordnance maps of Dorset and a pair of binoculars, and set his alarm for five the following morning.
The run down to Dorset through banks of early morning mist had been beautiful and exhilarating. He bought coffee and a couple of hot pies in Sturminster Marshall, sitting in his little car above the Wareham road sipping the hot liquid and munching the crisp pastry. He couldn’t remember ever having felt more alive.
He found Almer and identified its Manor, a gracious stone house standing well back from the road. There was a little lake between the Wareham road and the Manor, surrounded by a copse of trees, and he parked his car and walked down and found a hide amongst the tangled hazel bushes.
He studied the house through his binoculars, working out the best angle of approach, the available cover, the best place to wait with his gun. There was a small church in the grounds, half-hidden by a massive yew tree. The church would provide an excuse to get close to the house, while the yew would be ideal cover for anyone watching the Manor’s front door. It was almost too good to be true.
He began to work out a rough timetable. Could he do the job next weekend? He’d have to check when services were held at the church – he didn’t want to run slap-bang into a happy congregation. He’d also have to get some idea when Denis was likely to be at home. It would be pointless waiting all day if the man spent Sundays in Bournemouth, or ran up to London each weekend.
It would mean having to watch the place over several weekends, he decided. Perhaps he’d even have to make discreet inquiries in the village. It would take time, but then, he had all the time in the world. His quarry was not going anywhere, and this was one operation he was determined would go like clockwork.
And then he shook his head. That was not how it would be at all. This was not going to be a covert hit, but an execution in the full light of day. He would simply drive up to the Manor, meet Denis at the front door, shoot him, and then walk across to the church and wait there calmly for the police.
Of course, before he did that he would have to make sure that things were properly arranged in London. He’d need to have the spool of photographic film developed and copied. One copy for his lawyer, a backup copy stored with his bank. He’d need to swear out a statutory declaration explaining everything, just in case the police – or MI5 – bumped him off before he came to trial. He had no illusions about just how rough they would get as soon as he moved against Denis.
Suddenly a small party emerged from the house. A thickset woman in her fifties and three children, all well rugged up and carrying clipboards and measuring tapes. They came straight towards him across a frost-covered field, the children rosy-cheeked and laughing, the woman trying to be gruff and businesslike but failing. Malcolm knew that he should retreat from his hide but he put off the moment. These would be Nona’s children, presumably with a nanny or governess in charge, and he wanted to watch them for a while and get some idea of how Nona’s family had turned out.
There was a flash of reflected light from the Manor as someone opened an upstairs window, and he adjusted his binoculars to see who it had been. Nona was looking out at her children, her face soft with a smile. She looked indescribably beautiful.
For a moment, Malcolm was touched by a curious fantasy. He felt he was looking in on another universe, a universe where things had gone the way they should have gone. Nona was his wife. The beautiful house was his house. The children were his and Nona’s. His eye was caught by the little girl, her blonde hair streaming as she ran, and he laughed and almost stretched out his arms as if she were running towards him.
But then the moment was over, and when he readjusted the binoculars Nona’s face had gone from the window.
A man came out of the walled garden with a wheelbarrow and began planting bulbs on a bank beside the driveway. He was clearly ancient, and he moved with frustrating deliberation, pausing often to light up a cigarette and puff contentedly. He was far too old to be effective, Malcolm thought irritably, and surely it was far too late to put in bulbs? If this were his home he’d give the man his marching orders.
A downstairs French door opened and Nona came out, followed a second or two later by Denis. The two chatted to the gardener for a moment, then wandered down towards the little lake, their breaths making little puffs of condensation on the chilly air. Malcolm realised again that he should retreat but still he couldn’t move. The binoculars were fixed on Nona as he tried to read her every gesture, every expression on her face. At one point she laughed and caught at Denis’s arm, and Malcolm was pierced by a stab of jealousy.
Now they had reached the group at the lakeside, and Malcolm knew they need only look his way to see him. But still he could not move. This was the closest he had been to Nona since the moment outside Starlight Bungalow, when she had come out unhesitatingly to tend him despite the gunfire fr
om the jungle. In a kinder world they would both have died there, to be forever linked by a moment of heroic grandeur.
Tears squeezed from Malcolm’s eyes, blurring his vision for a second. When he could see again Nona was staring straight at him. For a fraction of a second he hesitated, and then he was stumbling up the hill towards the Wareham road. He glanced back to see Denis coming around the lake after him, and began to sprint flat-out for his car. He could not believe how stupid he had been: if he were caught, or even recognised, his whole mission would be at risk.
He didn’t have far to go but in the end it was a near-run thing. For some reason he ran clumsily, looking backwards every few steps and stumbling more than once. The two men reached the roadway with Denis a bare twenty yards behind, but then Malcolm was in his car, jabbing furiously at the starter button. The engine caught immediately, the tyres spun and he was on his way.
Stupid. How stupid he had been. He had put his mission at risk just to look at Nona for a while, to pretend she was still part of his world. The cost of infatuation, he told himself savagely. From now on he must steel himself. Stay focused. Keep the object of the exercise in the front of his mind.
But at least Denis could not have recognised him. They had never been closer than twenty yards and he’d had his hat over his eyes. And of course the car was untraceable.
His shoulders relaxed as he turned onto the London road.
But Denis had recognised him. ‘What in thunder possessed you?’ Sir Percy Sillitoe asked. ‘The only reasonable inference I can draw is that you intend Elesmere-Elliott some sort of harm. What other reason could you have for snooping around his home with a pair of binoculars?’
Malcolm could only spread his hands helplessly. ‘I happened to be passing, Director-General. I saw a rather nice house and wandered down to take a closer look . . .’
‘Balderdash. You know perfectly well where Denis lives. You went down there to spy on him, didn’t you? You must have had a reason for doing that. What is that reason?’
Malcolm opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. In truth, he was deeply shocked. It was the Monday after his visit to Dorset, and so far it had been a perfectly normal day. But he’d come back to his desk after a farewell tea for a colleague to find his office full of men and the Director-General himself sitting in his chair. His safe was open – not that there was anything in it – and the drawers of his desk had been up-ended so that the men from Security could sort through their contents.
‘I must assume the worst,’ Sillitoe said in his official, policeman voice. ‘I must assume that contrary to our understanding you intend to take the Elesmere-Elliott business further. Either that or you have gone stark staring mad.’
Again Malcolm opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out.
He was in serious trouble. If they suspected that he intended to do something about the Elesmere-Elliott matter, they would have sent people down to search his flat. If they found the spool of film, they would throw the book at him and he would have no comeback. He had committed a very serious offence, copying top secret material and smuggling it out of Leconfield House. That could mean twenty years in goal. At the very least. If they were so disposed they would tie his actions to the Russians – he’d seen that done before – and have him hung for treason.
But after the shock his brain had begun working again and was now spinning smoothly, assessing possibilities. He would be in some form of custody before the day was out, he was sure of that. Either prison or a psychiatric ward. So he would have to act fast now, throw them off balance, get clear before they could arrange his apprehension. ‘I’m sorry, D-G,’ he said contritely. ‘I’ve not been well. I think I need help.’
Sillitoe’s face softened a little. ‘I think we all rather guessed that,’ he said. ‘You’ve been under a lot of strain . . .’
‘I’m just going to take a little walk while you check my room,’ he said. ‘I need to calm down. I give you my parole I won’t run away.’
Sillitoe hesitated and held up a hand, but Malcolm just smiled disarmingly and set off down the corridor. Act fast, keep them off balance.
He went straight down to the lobby and out into the street. There was a taxi passing and he jumped in, aware from the corner of his eye that Jack Douglas, the security guard, had come out after him and was waving urgently.
He paid off the taxi at the entrance to Hanover Gardens and strolled as nonchalantly as he could to his front door. He had one fright on the way: there was a policeman standing on the footpath, but he was merely a bobby on his beat who gave Malcolm a friendly nod as he passed.
As soon as he opened his door Malcolm saw that he was too late. The place had been taken apart. The papers from his bureau were scattered on the floor, the pictures removed from the walls, even the cushions on the chairs ripped open so that the stuffing covered the place like snow.
The curtains in the lounge room were down, and a quick look at the hems told him everything. The hem where he had sewn his roll of film had been slit open and the film was gone.
It was a very serious blow indeed. Malcolm sank down on the disordered lounge, the wind knocked from him as if he’d been hit in the solar plexus. Without the film it would only be his word against theirs. And they had battleships on their side.
But that changed nothing, he told himself savagely. He tapped the gun under his left armpit and gave a fighting grin. It just meant that he’d have to do the job covertly, keep under cover, establish a new life as Arthur Smith. Perhaps later on, down the track, he’d have an opportunity to expose what had been going on in MI5. Perhaps he might prevail over the forces of darkness even now.
But first he needed to escape.
He knew precisely why his flat was empty. There was a rule of evidence that anything found during an illegal search cannot be used in a criminal trial. As soon as they had found the roll of film, MI5 would have vacated the place in order to re-enter ‘legally’ with a search warrant. But of course they would have left the place under surveillance. Malcolm peered out the front window. Sure enough, there was the traditional unmarked van parked on the other side of Hanover Gardens. To make it even clearer who they were, Malcolm saw the friendly bobby wander up and speak to the people in the van, then glance sharply towards his front door.
He had only moments to get away, and clearly it couldn’t be on foot. He had brought his Triumph motor cycle back from Malaya, and it was stored in his small laundry, covered with a dust-sheet. But it was in perfect order: he maintained it religiously, gave it a run once a month and ran up the motor every week.
Malcolm rolled the machine down the corridor to his front door. He peered around the jamb to see several men climbing out of the van and walking towards him across the little park that is the heart of Hanover Gardens. He had not a second to spare.
Flinging open the door, he jumped into the saddle and kicked the engine into life. The men coming towards him saw what was happening and broke into a run. Without hesitation, Malcolm let out the clutch and the Triumph leapt out of the hallway, bumped down the double front steps, and was on the road, swinging hard left.
‘Hoy!’ The man leading the group from the van had a pistol in his hand and aimed it at Malcolm. ‘Stop in the name of the law!’
But Malcolm was away, the engine roaring, blue smoke streaming from his twin exhausts. ‘Stop in the name of the law?’ he shouted to himself. ‘I thought that went out with the Ark!’
He thundered down Trigon Street, broadsided into Brixton Road, and then was racing south, the wind in his hair, his heart racing with excitement and happiness. He had got away, and he had everything he needed on him. The gun under his arm. Identity papers for a man called Arthur Smith, a respectable retired captain from the Royal Bedford Regiment. Enough cash to live for years in comfort without working.
He would have to dice the Triumph, of course, which was a shame, and buy a small car for cash. Then he’d rent a place, a small cottage by the sea. At Lyme Regis, perhaps
, or Weymouth. Close enough to Almer but not too close.
He remembered an incident from his early days in Malaya. A tiger had escaped from a private zoo in Ipoh, disappearing into the trackless jungles of Perak. The proprietor had called into the Ipoh police station and asked if they could please find his tiger for him. How they had all laughed! Catch a particular tiger in the ulu? Easier to catch a particular fish in the sea!
Malcolm felt as if he were a tiger slipping into the dappled sanctuary of the jungle. Shedding the stench of his cage, ridding himself of the burden of his captivity. He tapped the pistol under his arm yet again. A particularly dangerous tiger, with a particular prey in mind.
Chapter Forty-Four
We had spent the day doing Christmas shopping in Bournemouth, and arrived home at dusk to see a police car parked by our front door. ‘No doubt collecting for the police Christmas party,’ Denis said lightly but I felt a flutter of apprehension.
‘It’s not the local police,’ Tony said scornfully. ‘Can’t you see it’s a Jaguar? It’s from the Flying Squad.’
‘You’ve been reading too much Edgar Wallace,’ Denis said.
But it was from Scotland Yard’s Flying Squad. A small, dapper man was waiting in the lounge and he rose to greet us with an outstretched hand. ‘Detective Inspector Makin, Special Branch,’ he said, ‘and this is my assistant, Sergeant Little. I’m sorry to intrude, but we need to talk.’ Sergeant Little also rose but apparently wasn’t important enough to be included in the handshaking. He was an intelligent-looking young man with a shy smile and he retired immediately to his chair, an open notebook in his hand.
‘What is the trouble, Inspector?’ Denis asked when we were seated.
‘I’m here about a man called Malcolm Bryant,’ Makin said without preamble, and my heart fell like a stone. ‘I understand you know him.’
‘We know Malcolm quite well,’ Denis said carefully. ‘I hope he hasn’t got himself into any trouble?’
In the Mouth of the Tiger Page 96
