The Widow's Son

by Daniel Kemp

  “Ahem—I can't tell you a dime about Syria. In fact that goes for the whole of the Middle East. It's not that I won't, it's just that I don't know. Ahem—whatever's about to kick off in that neck of the woods is hidden from my pay grade. But I can tell you this much; it's going to be something big. I've been fed so many stories over the past couple of months that whoever is in charge of the misinformation has forgotten the stories already broadcast. The first ones are starting to do the rounds again. According to that one, we, that's the US, are going to take over Saudi Arabia while the Israelis invade Syria then the two of us, with your lot and the Canucks of course, will take Iran. UK troops will parachute into Egypt and at long last get your hands on the Canal, all to yourselves this time. Ahem, no Frenchies to be included. Too much bad water between us and the French over Bosnia to swap handshakes with them again. As for any Russians in the area, they will pick their skirts up and run for home.” He laughed, which infuriated me, but I did manage a polite smile.

  “Heard anything of Liam Catlin, Spencer?” I asked.

  “Nothing since he was pronounced dead back in the summer. Unless I start hearing voices from the grave then I don't expect to either.” He gave me a long quizzical stare.

  “No, I didn't mean from him, I meant about him. Awards or mentions. That kind of thing? Only I've heard that he might be getting some sort of recognition in the New Year's Honours list. Wondered if you'd seen a copy floating around Downing Street last time you were invited there.”

  “Ahem—I haven't been close to Number 10 for some time. The nearest I've been to any of your politicians was when I was a guest at Shepherds the other day for lunch, but not the restaurant frequented by Westminster Parliamentarians. An Italian sandwich place in Soho Square.”

  A raucous Texan laugh had some diners turning their heads towards us. As he said—pay grades make a defining barrier to the downward passage of secrets. Spencer knew nothing, which in itself was surprising as he was Director General of the CIA desk in their satellite building situated beneath Admiralty Arch in Spring Garden, Trafalgar Square and a regular caller at Number 10 as well as the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, both via the St James' Park entrance.

  * * *

  It was gone 6pm by the time I reached Greenwich, partially due to the never-ending traffic, but also because I was hoping that by arriving late Geoffrey would be in a hurry to get off. That wasn't the case, which did not help to focus my full concentration on what he was saying all the time.

  “I have no paperwork regarding the meeting you had with Raynor aka Fyodor Nazarov Razin, Patrick. I'm sure that's only a hiccup as you're relatively new to procedure, but I would like a full report; very soon, old boy. And oh, before I forget, in all your future references to said Russian you will use the cover name of Raynor not Razin as you are so fond of, please.”

  Suitably reprimanded, I lowered my head in acknowledgement of the instructions, determined to forget it as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

  “That's why I'm here, Geoffrey. I thought I'd tell you what happened face to face rather than send an impersonal message over in computer jargon. In essence nothing happened. He's here for two weeks. Goes home to St Petersburg this coming Friday to spend Christmas with his daughter. It's all innocent stuff. He has a cousin working in the Silver Vaults who buys Russian icons on Razin's behalf, sorry, Raynor's behalf. He makes himself as visible as possible so we won't get our knickers in a twist and scale up our activity and rattle the cages of his bosses back in Moscow. Not that he has many, but even so. He said that despite having permission he'd rather keep it on the QT than not.

  “We had quite a chat about how the Soviets had originally stripped the country bare of precious icons then leaked them onto the black market making shedloads of money. Those who sold them off are the ones holding all the roubles and wanting to buy them back. Razin, oops, Raynor is their go-to man. He makes a bit on the side which again is known, but he upsets nobody and wants to keep it that way.”

  “Is that all you got? You were with him for over an hour, Patrick. Did you sit staring at each other holding hands for most of that time?”

  “No, Geoffrey, I took notice of everything he said but I can assure you there was positively nothing to be excited about.”

  My physical presence was opposite Geoffrey Harwood in his lavishly appointed office suite under the old Royal Palace in Greenwich, but my mind was churning over what was said by Razin at the Savoy.

  “There is a copy of part of the Gladio B file, Mr West, held by a section of the CIA that has no mailing address nor an office in a listed building. There is nothing significant in that file on operations conducted under its banner, but what it does hold is absolutely crucial to its safety. An open reference to the three members of the Armenian Rosicrucians who have the whole second file between them. I knew of that. The Americans know of it now, and I have mentioned it you that they have possession of the more detailed and valuable file. Notwithstanding all of that, I'm left disturbed and puzzled. I'm told that the security measures taken by the Pentagon, and other American security institutions that retain secret documents are of the highest quality matched only by ourselves and perhaps the British, so why is the location of the sharp end of the Gladio B file in the hands of three Armenians? If the American Senate committee on governmental affairs had knowledge of that breach I wonder if they would allow it to remain that way. It is somewhat odd even for those at Langley.”

  Razin and I were off the tea and into the hip flask I was in the habit of carrying, whisky having the same effect on him as me; it increased the craving for cigarettes. I had lost count of the combined number we had smoked.

  “On the day before the World Trade Centre attack by Bin Laden and his terrorists, Donald Rumsfeld gave a speech where he announced that $2.3 trillion in Pentagon spending cannot be accounted for. $2.3 trillion! He identified the military and the intelligence bureaucracy as the biggest threat to a peacetime America. Powerful words from a former Secretary for Defence as he was then—biggest threat to peacetime America. Why would that be, I wonder? Of course, more newsworthy events overtook that story the following day, conveniently some would say, pushing it into oblivion that has found little mention in the aftermath of the Twin Towers attack. That figure is astronomical by any standard, matched, I believe, by only five countries who have anywhere near that figure as an annual gross domestic product. Despite a leakage of such magnitude, we have monitored no unusual rise in military spending. We concluded it was invested elsewhere; possibly into a covert private army. Perhaps, that's Donald Rumsfeld's threat to peacetime America? You and I have survived the Cold War and the dangerous military manoeuvres named Ryan and Able Archer's of the 1980s when Reagan and Thatcher were not only threatening my country, they almost obliterated the world. Since that time Russia and the West have become almost brothers. So why the evocative words of a peacetime threat if no enemies can be identified? The political arm of America evidently doesn't trust the military, but why do you suppose the good guys don't rat on the bad guys, Patrick?”

  As Razin's question faded into the walls he rose from his chair and did the thing I least expected. He emptied our ashtray, filled the kettle and prepared to make more tea.

  “My flask not to your taste, Comrade General? I thought you said you hadn't come to drink cup after cup of tea, and here you are being mother and doing the housework as you brew. What changed your mind?”

  “Filthy ashtrays and your habit of avoiding questions, Mr West? Are you playing for a suitable amount time to concoct an answer?”

  “No, I'm not. It's simply I have no definitive answer to give. A stab in the dark would be that it's probably because the good guys don't know who the bad guys are and don't trust a soul to ask.”

  “Your stab in the dark has struck at precisely the correct target. None of what I've told you is known to this serving President, and apart from one before him, unknown to all the presidents dating back to the CIA's inception in 1947. I
won't be silly and ask if you would like the name of that President. It was Richard Nixon who devised the plan whilst serving as Vice President to Dwight D. Eisenhower. In 1954 he first set about constructing this deceitful policy aided and driven by the many generals who wanted to wage war against Mother Russia, and never forgave Eisenhower for not agreeing to their expansionist plans. Some of those plans were even pointed at an invasion of this country, Mr West. Just imagine London's Savoy being in crude American hands.

  “But you and I were saved from the deceptive Americans and the serpent is no longer controlled by the military. By various means not known to me, the original designs of generals and admirals for world domination has been altered in style to accommodate the financial ambitions of eight concealed families with histories dating back several centuries. Those eight business leaders with only the most viable commercial formats in their minds want complete control of this world, not just whatever percentage it is they have now. Please save your curiosity as to how I know that fact, as I don't know you well enough to disclose it. I also cannot give you a comprehensive list of their names as I don't have one. I don't believe anyone outside their circle has one. However, I can visualise a day when you and I will have knowledge of some of them.

  “Let me swiftly move on to Henry Mayler and Fraser Ughert. I was present when Henry had the Rosey Cross tattoo put on his hand. It was the 6th of April 1970. When written in numerical form—6/4/1970, the numbers add up to twenty-seven, a number divisible by three leaving nine, and then divisible by three again leaving three. If you were to add Henry's birth date of 03/01/1970 it comes to twenty-one, a number also divisible by three. Is a picture forming in your mind, Mr West?”

  These were of course the same numbers Fraser had thrown at me and obviously were of importance to him and Razin, but I didn't want Razin to know of my prior knowledge so it was with my best mystified expression that I greeted this disclosure.

  “No, you look bewildered. Let me give you another number to work with. On the third of January next year, Henry will be thirty-three years of age. Got it yet? 03/01/2003 equals nine. Divide that number by three again and you get three. Rosey Cross time once more. As I said, Henry will be two threes at thirty-three. Any hairs on your neck standing up? Has Fraser Ughert ever mentioned the third-third degree in Freemasonry to you?” I shook my head at his question.

  “Has he told you that he was Henry's Control?” To that I answered that he had, and that's when all the walls came tumbling down.

  “Ughert has told me that you are different from any British agent I may have heard of or come across, and certainly different from the normal civil servants that work in your establishments. I'm hoping what I've heard is correct and you turn out to be the tempest that destroys the temple. But be careful to step away from any whirlwind's path in good time. I've been told of a tempest that regularly blows through Djibouti and the surrounding poor countries of Africa, sweeping many men and women up into its arms. Nobody has an interest in who is enslaved to die alongside terrorists or sold into the European sex trade for the money to buy weapons. Numbers on paper are only numbers on paper after all. And the truth is only the truth when it doesn't disturb our sleep. Be careful you do not wake too many sleepy liars, Mr West.”

  “As we're discussing truth, General, Henry told me the story of your escape from Al Hasakeh, and how you ambushed the chasing car. That was bloody smart thinking on your part. He added that you removed something from the driver's pocket after you shot him. Care to tell me what and why that was?” It was self-evident by his screwed-up facial features that I'd rattled him, but I hadn't anticipated his reaction.

  “It that what the Armenian said, was it? I shot the driver and I took something from his pocket? No, that is not what happened. My shot wounded the driver and caused the car to leave the tarmac and overturn, but Mayler shot him dead and took a mobile phone from his pocket. He crushed it under his foot saying that it probably carried a directional finder. Why would he get that mixed up?”

  * * *

  “Am I boring you, Patrick, or are you distracted by the bulging Christmas present list you must be thinking of?” Geoffrey shouted at me as my mind was orbiting around what Razin had told me about him knowing Fraser Ughert. That, along with what he told me of Henry Mayler, was exhilarating of course, but it was more than I had bargained for. Whichever way I looked the question of why he had chosen me to tell was all the more disturbing. Yes, Head of Group was a prestigious role within the joint intelligence community, but I was well down the chain of overall command. Who above me could I trust? Geoffrey had stopped his rambling cross-examination in favour of a more personal insulting assault.

  “Are you spending Christmas with the Ugherts? Ah, of course, now I know who it is who has your concentration. Your fantasy goes by the name of Geraldine if I'm not mistaken and provides more creature comforts than I can possibly do. I doubt you will be absorbed by much else, will you?”

  In days past his acerbic remark would have got under my skin, so much so that it wouldn't have taken much more for me to punch him until he was unconscious. As that would have led to an inquiry in the New Year where I would at least be reprimanded, I chose propriety over reprisal, but tinged with enough indictments of blame to bruise.

  “No, my mind was far from Christmas, Mr Harwood. I was lost inside the grandeur of this office of yours. Must be right up your street worshipping the paintings of past grandees and favourite sons of these shores. But, Geoffrey, tell me, will you ever get your portrait on a wall beside any of them? You will have to do something of great magnitude and merit to achieve that, I fancy. Maybe if I was to mention a file I came across relating to the abduction of seven men and four women from a country I find hard to pronounce, then that might possibly lead us both to something meritorious?”

  “Djibouti. It's perfectly simple, Joseph. The deployment of the muscles at the rear of the mouth are useful. I very much doubt what you've read could develop into much,” he remarked, as though human trafficking was an everyday occurrence he had to deal with and dismiss from his conscience.

  “I've read the attached statements from those that were rescued; three men with some remarkably detailed knowledge of caches of Taliban weapons, distribution routes and some ins and outs of Pakistan, but there's another thing in there that appears not to have been followed up. They all say that in the camp where they were kept, there were many others who had also been forced to join the Taliban after being caught by traffickers. Was anything done about that, Geoffrey? Did I miss something?”

  “Am I to be entertained by your working-class sarcasm, Joseph? If so, then it is very tiresome, but I'll indulge you. I passed that report over to the Americans, the Pakistani, and the security service in Djibouti. We have no diplomatic contact with Ethiopia. From memory three villages in Pakistan were named, but I'm unaware of what happened after it was handed over. Did you read that report from General Sir Ralph Warrington at the Strategic Studies Group? Complete rubbish I thought, but some up the food chain gave it the nod. Fraser Ughert was one of those. Although he is officially retired his opinion is sought after on all things American and pertaining to the Middle East. Come to that, not much escapes his observation or his unrequested comment falling into fertile minds. He's had a state-of-the-art security system installed in that office of his, paid for from the public purse. It's as though he's never left and nobody has the balls to tell him to go.”

  I ignored the begrudging remark and offered no comment on his speculation.

  “Anything done about the report of American involvement in the abduction of the Ethiopians?”

  “As I understand things it was marked down as pure conjecture. Not much to go on really is it; shouted voices in a noisy hostile situation? Standing orders required me to keep the report on file but had it been left to me I would have tossed in the shredder.”

  “And those 'others' the Africans spoke of as being forced to become soldiers for the mujahideen to throw at the enemy. N
othing done about that report, Mr Harwood?”

  “That taunting of yours has passed over the invisible line of respectability. Cut it out right now or resign right now. You were not at the meeting discussing those reports and therefore you're not entitled to pass judgment on those that were. We bat for the same team, Joseph, at least I hope you do.”

  That statement carried a reprimanding stare of biblical proportions, and instead of being turned into a pillar of salt I sat in silence for a short while thinking of the words Razin had employed in his recounting of the abductions, and the manner he had delivered them. I could have told Geoffrey why nobody wanted the report followed up, but I didn't. Harwood was the type who needed no disentanglement of words used by the defeated to find the truth, he coloured history in the colours of the conquering victors. I kept my lips firmly closed about that side of my morning conversation at the Savoy, leaving Razin's words swimming around in my brain as I waited for the anger to dissipate from Geoffrey's face before attempting another question. At last he calmed down.

  “The word is that the Americans are unaware of Liam Catlin's arrival in Syria, Geoffrey. Would that be correct?”

  “I think it is safe to assume that, but although they have nothing directly from us, their ignorance cannot be taken for granted. However, if your follow-up question is, do I know which country Catlin is in right now? I can honestly announce I'm unfamiliar with the whereabouts of field agents since my upwards movement from Group,” he answered with a forced smile. Then, when the smile could be held no longer, he added, “But the honest answer to your question is no, Joseph. I've no idea at all, old boy.”