The Falklands Intercept

by Crispin Black

  There was absolute silence in the room. Nevinson stared at Jacot. ‘You didn’t mention anything about this when we talked on the train.’

  ‘Some things are just too difficult. I am sure you now understand why. In the confusion of the night march Jones, who was crouching on the hill nearby, may well have been the only other person to hear it in the flesh as it were. Although obviously those other officers, whoever they were and I think I know, must have been listening in. Afterwards, after all the dying and then the recriminations, he knew what it meant but said nothing. No one would have listened anyway. Contrary to what it looked like at one point, Jones did not then harbor a terrible grudge for thirty years or so about his dead brother – killing Verney when quite by chance he comes to stay at the college and quite by chance Jones recognizes the key words after all these years. In the moments after he realized who Verney was perhaps he hated him, briefly. But ultimately Jones is not a killer and the anger he felt was a railing against Fate rather than any human agent. No. Jones had moved on and except on the anniversary of the bombing or at Christmas thinks little of his younger brother.

  ‘But it all came back the night of the feast before the lecture. Jones isn’t sure, but he thinks he heard the words at dinner. It took a few seconds, but then that awful night in the South Atlantic half a lifetime before came back to him. The candlelight dinner helped – it was in the Combination Room which is lit only by candles in sconces. As he was saying the fateful words thirty years ago, with Jones half-looking on, Verney had lit a cigarette – the candlelight at the dinner framed his face in exactly the same way and Jones recognized him. Not the voice but the face. Jones wasn’t sure who had said the words. The hubbub of the dinner was too loud and Jones had been moving away. He thought the Master might have said them. Later that night, once the dinner was over, Jones went up to Verney’s room possibly to confront him, he admits. But he swears blind that he had not gone to harm him. While he is there he hears the words again, distinctly this time, as part of an argument coming from Verney’s room – “Just make it look as though they have broken down” – in an American accent.’

  Even as the Exocet had struck the Oliver Cromwell it had taken Jacot a couple of seconds to realize what was going on. Even as you are being blown up it’s hard to believe. Lady Nevinson appeared to be in the same confused, disbelieving state as Jacot thirty years before at this bombshell revelation.

  She poured two glasses of whisky. Handing one to a grateful Ingoldsby she said slowly to Jacot, ‘What on earth are you suggesting?’

  Jacot continued, ‘Well there are lots of Americans in Cambridge. But Jones said it was the American gentleman who came for the lecture.’

  ‘Who was?’

  ‘Dixwell.’

  ‘So what if Verney sent a message, long ago, calling off what sounds like a fairly hare-brained scheme Jacot?’

  ‘Well Lady Nevinson, it’s a bit like the Titanic. No single decision caused it to founder just as no single decision consigned us to an inferno on the Oliver Cromwell. It was a chain of causation in both cases. It does not excuse some very dodgy decisions and procedures on Titanic or Cromwell or anyone who behaved badly during or after the disasters. The moral responsibility for all those dead and wounded men, and my hands come to think of it, hardly lies with Verney. It was a war in any case. But if he and some others conspired to have their commanding officer’s orders disobeyed, and it ended in the death and destruction it did, that’s different. He may not have felt any guilt and in a way I can quite see why. His act of disobedience, dishonesty even, is quite early in the chain of events – about equivalent to one of the officers on Titanic not being able to find the key to the locker that held the binoculars when they joined the ship at Southampton. It wouldn’t keep a man of normal sympathetic feeling awake at night over the years. But if at some point someone found out, then he would have been vulnerable. If the Americans had been taping British communications in the way my friend William Say had been. And if later they put two and two together about this long forgotten signals intercept as Verney began his rapid climb of the greasy pole then who knows?’

  ‘For God’s sake.’ Ingoldsby looked pale and was swallowing repeatedly. ‘So what you are saying is that the most senior military intelligence official in the country was in the pay of, or under the control of, Langley.’

  ‘Under the control most likely. And at that level it always helps to get good reports from the Americans. At least it’s not the prime minister this time.’ Jacot smirked but got no sympathetic response. He continued, ‘The Americans helped us in the Falklands… eventually. With equipment and intelligence. NSA would have been monitoring communications in the area. Most people are aware that despite the various treaties their bases in Antarctica are listening as well as scientific stations. They could well have had ships at sea just outside the Exclusion Zone around the islands. Whatever they say, they were well in with the Argentine junta. Hard to conjure up now but as long as you were anti-communist few questions were asked about much else. Maybe they had an NSA installation in Argentina. Who knows how they found out? But however they did it, the most senior CIA official in the UK certainly knew about Verney’s little faux pas at a big dinner in Cambridge thirty years later.’

  Ingoldsby was suddenly animated. ‘But why would the Americans need anything on Verney. He was everything the Americans wanted. He even dressed as an American, with generals’ stars rather than what our chaps usually wear. He was slavishly, comically, institutionally pro-American. Straight out of central casting. One of the type who appeared to revel in the Special Relationship and its core military belief that the whole point of the British Army is to act as junior partner to the Americans. Forget the petty humiliations. Forget what we once were. Forget that we might have our own interests. As long as we suck up to Uncle Sam we’ll have wars to fight and careers to pursue.’

  ‘Yes thank you Ingoldsby’, said Nevinson. ‘Daniel and I and most of the country as far as I can see share your well-expressed views. But you have a good point. There was a wobble with the new prime minister a few weeks ago on Afghanistan but it passed. There was apparently a terrible scene. I think he has realized that with one stroke of the pen he could get us out of the whole thing. I think a few glasses of whisky had been taken and he was seriously considering it. Luckily or rather unluckily to people of our kidney the grown ups were summoned in short order to administer the smelling salts. Interestingly, one of the people brought into to administer to the PM’s late emerging doubts was Verney. As you say he was a true believer.’

  Jacot asked, ‘How do you know all this? It’s a very small circle around him.’

  Nevinson looked at Ingoldsby. ‘We have someone, a Magenta someone.’

  Jacot was astounded but brought himself under control. ‘Maybe Verney had changed his mind.’

  Ingoldsby nodded. ‘I think that was what was going on. We had begun to pick it up from other sources. Verney wanted to get us out of Afghanistan in double quick time and seemed to be having qualms of conscience about the next impending Americano-British war. It may have partly been an inter-service thing. The Navy smarting from their exclusion from Afghanistan and the loss of their carriers are lobbying hard to get involved against Iran – if it comes to that.’

  There was absolute silence again in the room.

  Jacot rolled his eyes. ‘OK so what do we do? Go to the PM?’

  Ingoldsby looked extremely nervous and licked his lips. ‘Forget it. He wouldn’t believe us. And we only know because we have the cheek to be spying on his inner circle.’

  ‘I see what you mean’.

  Ingoldsby wasn’t entirely convinced. ‘I have to say I remain puzzled.’ He looked at Lady Nevinson. ‘Would it be all right if I brief the good colonel on one or two little details?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Listen Colonel, I think you should know that we had been looking into General Verney for some time. I cannot go into the details but he came to our attention s
ome months ago in a routine check. It may surprise you in these difficult times that we have any energy left in the Security Service that is not devoted to pursuing Islamist extremists. But since the Cambridge Spies we have always taken our own internal security very seriously. It is well known now that Mrs Thatcher insisted on unmasking the unfortunate Anthony Blunt as the so-called Fourth Man when she came to power in 1979. What no one knows is that, as part of the process, we at MI5 received what was in effect a huge corporate bollocking. Blunt had been one of our officers – he slipped through the vetting net during the difficult early war years. I had only just joined at the time but one old boy, then at the top of the service, who had an interview with the good lady at the time on the subject of Blunt said it was one of the roughest experiences of his life.’ Ingoldsby smiled. ‘He refuses to go to the new film with Meryl Streep in case the nightmares return.’ She made it clear that there were to be no more vetting cock-ups, ever. So since then we have always put a lot of effort into making sure that the people on our side, remain on side. To be honest it hasn’t been that difficult now that no one cares about sexual orientation or stuff like that. We no longer have to ask new recruits or even generals in charge of intelligence that awkward question “Have any of your girlfriends, shall we say, not been girls at all?”’

  They all laughed. The tension was receding.

  ‘Anyway, as a result we do random checks on people. Bit like the police sticking up road-blocks for breath-testing. They are usually authorized by Lady Nevinson. We did one on Verney. It wasn’t quite random. There had been a little detail which surprised us. Turned out to be a false alarm. I can assure you Verney wasn’t spying for the Americans or anyone else. I am even more sure than you might think. Given the closeness of our gallant troops in the field to the Americans we have long had a little programme in place to make sure that they did not exert too much influence on impressionable young officers. Indeed, as part of Magenta, Verney’s Aide-de-camp until three months ago was a young and very bright Intelligence Corps captain, who worked for us.

  ‘It’s one thing for the CIA to blackmail a senior British official. My guess is that this kind of thing may have been even more prevalent in the Cold War – lots of people with left wing connections at university and so on that could have proved to be career impediments. But to go from an old habit of common or garden intelligence blackmail to murder is a different thing altogether.’

  Nevinson nodded. ‘I agree. Why kill? It does not quite ring true of the Americans. Of course they tried many times to kill Castro, who got his revenge fairly quickly. And they have bumped off other inconvenient leaders by all accounts. But a British general? Well done Jacot, anyway. We are clearly getting closer.’

  ‘One more thing for you Ingoldsby’, said Jacot. ‘Jones said Dixwell was arguing so hard with Verney that he had an asthma attack. He distinctly heard the sound of an inhaler being pressed. Could you find out if Dixwell is an asthmatic? Today, if possible. I think it may be crucial.’

  XXV

  West End Central Police Station,

  Savile Row, Mayfair, London W1

  The desk sergeant quickly slid both his copy of the Evening Standard and a small half-eaten Scotch egg under a file on his counter. There wasn’t time to straighten his tie. The Commander of the Metropolitan Police’s Special Branch swept past in uniform accompanied by a man of medium height and bland features wearing a light brown covert coat. They went immediately upstairs to the Superintendent’s office.

  Half an hour or so later two uniformed and two plain-clothes men came into the police station. By this time the desk sergeant was immaculate and his counter contained only one highly sharpened pencil and his occurrences ledger, open at a new page and laid absolutely straight on top of the counter.

  ‘Where have you lads suddenly emerged from if I may ask?’

  ‘Suspected break in, Harley Street. Some punter phoned in. But we had a look around and nothing to report.’

  ‘I better enter it into the ledger and give it a code number.’

  ‘Go ahead mate. We are off to the canteen.’

  But only three of the men went downstairs to the canteen. The fourth went upstairs to the Superintendent’s office.

  By the time the time the commander of special branch and his nondescript friend left the station the desk sergeant had come to the end of his shift.

  XXVI

  Set C5 Pilgrims’ Court,

  St James’ College, Cambridge

  Jacot “sported his oak”. They still did things the old way around here. 74 had set out a half bottle of sherry – Manzanilla, ice cold as he liked it. He sat down in a faded but comfortable leather armchair and looked out of the sash windows at the River Cam and the Bridge of Sorrows, which connected the two halves of the college. It was a picture postcard view of Cambridge – reproduced in a thousand travel brochures – and greatly re-assuring. Cambridge and its way of looking at the world stood for something. Life was in some ways rational and civilised and that would prevail. That the image of this rationality was so well loved made it more powerful. Even Hitler had held his hand against the great university town – other than a lone Heinkel bomber in the summer of 1940 trying to attack the railway station the town had escaped largely unscathed. It was a satisfying piece of trivia that calmed and fortified Jacot. He leaned back and took a long pull at a glass of the ice-cold sherry. Putting the glass down he slowly peeled off his black silk gloves. The burned flesh was still angry and sometimes painful even after all these years. The only healthy skin was a small patch beneath where his watch had been. The flash from the exploding missile had incinerated his army watchstrap but for a split second before it fell away the body of the watch shielded his skin underneath. He was left with a perfect circle of unburned skin. He cupped both hands around the ice cold and refilled glass – as soothing as Flamazine, the gooey paste used to smother severe burns in the 1970s and 80s. He drank more sherry. It was the hour before dinner and the court was quiet – just a few footfalls. On his own staircase only the creaking of ancient timbers. Even baby Odo sleeping next door was quiet – connected by a baby alarm to his mother Hildegard who was almost certainly in the library less than a hundred feet away. Jacot had chatted to her on the staircase. She would hurry back if the child cried but usually little Odo slept through the night. Jacot was puzzled. He wasn’t sure but something did not quite add up.

  Would the Americans really have sought to murder Verney? He switched on his iPod and through the high tech speakers came the sublime sound of the first movement of Mozart’s Flute and harp concerto – pitch perfect, he could have been listening to it in a concert hall. Joyful, lively and serene all at the same time. Music sometimes helped him to think clearly – as did small quantities of alcohol. He wasn’t looking at it the right way. Relaxing the mind would give him a recharged perspective. Jacot dozed.

  ‘Confirm target is in the room.’

  ‘Confirmed.’

  ‘Confirm outer cordon in place’

  ‘Confirmed. Moving through.’

  ‘Await my command. Out’

  Jacot woke with a start. His body tensed. He could hear voices – military voices. He was still half asleep. He relaxed. Of course, it was the baby alarm picking up the dialogue from a film. Two men talking to each other – with strange accents. Jacot smiled – just like the dialogue in Munich – a film he had much enjoyed. Things were downloaded in so many ways these days it was hardly surprising that a baby alarm occasionally picked them up. One of the voices had been gravelly like Richard Burton’s. Maybe it was Where Eagles Dare playing on someone’s computer. Good choice thought Jacot. Burton and Eastwood were great. Somehow, the film combined a great nostalgia for the Second World War with pleasant memories of skiing holidays while young. It was, according to some sources at least, the prime minister’s favourite film. That was probably why one afternoon Lady Nevinson had asked, rather sheepishly for her, if he could lend her the DVD. Another glass of Manzanilla would go dow
n well.

  There were footsteps on the staircase. It wasn’t the girl from the next floor. Subconsciously his mind and ears had become accustomed to Hildegard’s footsteps. He could even tell whether she was carrying Odo or not. These footsteps were men. The only people in a Cambridge college who climbed staircases like that were the rugby hearties or the dining club types as they sneaked up on an unsuspecting victim on one of their rampages. Burly blokes treading carefully and lightly in order not to be heard. The early evening intake of sherry had dulled his wits.

  The fight instinct took over. His body was screaming out for a weapon – he could almost feel the comforting weight of a 9 Millimetre pistol in his hand. His hands worked by instinct – the right thumb as if to take the safety catch off and the left hand into the pocket to check for the spare magazine clip. He would need both magazines to have a chance against them. But there was nothing – he was unarmed. Panic kills. Jacot moved quietly into the small bathroom at the back. The mullioned window was difficult to push open but Jacot was outside within seconds. It wasn’t great standing on a narrow ledge eighty feet above the Cam but it was better than being inside. It was too high to jump. Even if he could somehow get back to ground level somewhere in the college and summon help it would not solve his problem. This was not a casual operation – it was an ambush. Whoever it was who was after him would have “cut offs” in place – men in the street at both ends of the college. Once they had flushed him out they would cut him down. He wouldn’t even be safe in the police station from men like this. Special forces of some kind – probably retired and working on the international circuit. Taking out a difficult Brit in a Cambridge college was a breeze compared to Afghanistan or the West Bank.