The Widow's Son

by Daniel Kemp

  “Call me slow, Fraser, but I'm still unclear about whose side Henry Mayler is on and why is that file in Armenia?”

  “Why Armenia? Okay, I'm going to start with how we know it's there and again I'm going to summarise somewhat. A signal from the CIA desk in the embassy in Sofia, Bulgaria was intercepted and deciphered at GCHQ in October this year giving details about a Russian named Dmitry Sklyarov. That report came straight to me. As a result of what I read I sent Henry Mayler to meet with this man. That meeting took place at an internet convention in Las Vegas. Sklyarov was an expert internet technician who was born on the banks of Lake Sevan in Armenia. Henry had heard stories from his father of the road that runs along the lake's shoreline in an elongated circle to and from that city. He had visualised it many times but never been there. As a consolation he could combine his secretive work of intelligence garnering with perhaps illumination on those passed-down memories when he met Sklyarov.

  “Sklyarov was a conversationalist and not only did he elucidate on Henry's childhood stories, he told Henry that he had hacked into the Pentagon's computers and what's more he showed him the evidence; the actual signal that the American operative I know as Robert Zaehner, or the Doctor, intercepted. It was intended for a person called Arnold who I can't find. The signal told Arnold the names of the Americans who had access to the original Gladio B file, also where it was hidden and instructions how to download and then erase it. I contacted Harwood's set-up at Greenwich, this AIS of his, gave them some of that signal and they then worked it backwards and found the IT address of the recipient. Geoffrey was happy to preen his feathers whilst he looked on, sitting on his hands. Two further signals emanated from that discovered address. Not only were they successfully deciphered, one of the recipients was known to us. The file was moved on my instructions. I not only know where the first Gladio B file is, Patrick, I now know where the reconstructed one is and its contents. Razin knows nothing of that. Harwood gained another medal by notifying the FBI about the leak and they arrested Sklyarov. I have the key that opens that highly controversial file without any other agency knowing.

  “This country has a strong relationship with Armenian Freemasonry which dates back as far as the beginning of the Ottoman Empire, but the Turks hated all Armenians. In 1915 they murdered more than a million simply because of their race. In 1922 the independent country of Armenia was swallowed up into the Soviet Union. We used that situation in our favour. When it became free of Russian dominance it did not find complete peace. Its borders with Turkey and Azerbaijan were under severe blockade and as the situation could not be resolved the Armenian government renewed its ties to Russia and invited them to maintain a military base within Armenia. We sat back rubbing our hands in delight. The information our Armenian friends passed our way was top-drawer stuff and we managed to get more classified material from within Russia when our contacts moved into more lucrative positions. It was through one of these contacts that I got a look at the second Gladio B file.”

  “What are you going to do now you've seen it, Fraser?”

  “That's for another day, laddie, and trust me, not your business. Let's tackle that first question of yours. Whose side is Henry Mayler on? The simple answer would be that he is like Razin in that respect; he's on his own side. He has been playing us and Russia against each other since he began working with Bernard. He fed Bernard, then he in turn fed Razin and Razin informed me. The roundabout churned merrily away in the playground and all was fine until Henry stepped away from the straightforward gathering of intelligence into the real dangerous game of front line spying. Your game, yours and Catlin's.

  “A couple of years back, when Henry was building his own association of dissident Kurds on our behalf, we supervised two shipments of weapons into a place north of Latakia, on the Syrian coast, by boat. Everything went smoothly for the first landing. The lorries were loaded and safely driven away, but on the second occasion when almost all had been unloaded the Kurds came under fire from a detachment of troops loyal to President Assad. According my report the troops were being 'advised' by Russian special forces from a Spetsnaz company. That's when Henry got that scar of his. He was trying to be too clever with the hearts and minds of his rebels and had overstayed his mission. A lorry he was hiding behind was hit and exploded. He was like you; lucky. I have, shall I say misgivings, when it comes to his affiliations to the Rosicrucian movement. The asset of mine in Armenia met Robert Zaehner, the NSA man who intercepted the message AIS tracked. Zaehner, the Doctor, says he managed to run some communications on this Arnold character. At one stage he thought he had him hooked. He threw some low-ish grade intercepted Italian intelligence, held by the CIA, on Israel's military strength on the Golan Heights into Arnold's path. Arnold bit on it. Arranged a drop-off point inside a recently established American Medical Mission in the capital of Armenia. The Doctor left what he called a thumb-drive, and I would call a memory stick. He hung around to get a sighting of this elusive Arnold, but no definite show. The intel remained where Robert Zaehner had left it.

  “We have weak footage from a newly installed camera showing a shadowy figure near the dead-letter box, but, quite honestly, we cannot be positive if it's a man or a woman. This could be purely coincidental but Mayler was in Armenia at the same time as that drop-off. Be that as it may, there is no evidence to suggest that Henry Mayler was anywhere near the Medical Mission. Razin is more superstitious than I, hence all his interest in the numbers. He is right to worry though. Next year we are both expecting an event where Henry will be at the centre, but we are unsure of exactly when that will be.”

  “Could this event be planned to happen in Canada, and is that why he wants to go there, Fraser?”

  “That is a question that has no answer. I gave him the standard choices then added the countries where he speaks the language and we are capable of relocating him. He wanted an English speaking destination and chose Canada.”

  “He gave no reason for that then?” Fraser shook his head.

  “If he's decided on that side of the Atlantic, why ignore America? Surely there would a better chance of blending into the background there than the sparsely populated Canada?”

  “I never attempted to persuade him either way. That was not what I wanted to do.”

  “Ah, so we have a purpose to his relocation. What was it you wanted him to do?”

  “A short story, laddie, to cover a point that we haven't broached. After Razin left Henry with that veiled threat of 'killing two targets in one go,' in Kabul in November, Henry travelled west. Quite a far distance in fact, further than two hours five minutes would take him. Would you care to know where he resurfaced?” I laughed and gave a short chuckle before adding the obvious reply,

  “That would be nice of you, Fraser, if it's no trouble.”

  My sarcasm was not wasted nor was my smile, as he imitated mine in the amused expression he returned.

  “JFK International Airport, in New York! Came off a direct flight from Damascus. Our Russian friend had him followed from Kabul to Damascus, and then followed again once in New York, but he has not told me where Henry went in New York.”

  “Why not?” My question was treated the same as many Fraser managed to parry away throughout his career; ignored, instead he introduced a facet hitherto unknown by anyone other than himself.

  “I have arranged for you to meet with my Armenian asset. Our old friend Jack Price recruited her and had an extended influence over her mother. Yes, my operative is a woman and an extremely good looking one. It will be a hands in your pocket approach, Patrick. I hope you understand that.”

  He stopped speaking, peering at me over the top of his spectacles, waiting for the standard sexist remark from me. There was none for me to make other than smile at the thought of not only having Geraldine's company to look forward and Hannah back at The Hole, now I was to meet another beautiful female. I could hear voices inside that imaginary conch shell of mine. They were quickly drowned out by Fraser's dialogue.


  “Jack was ace at spotting talent, where he fell down was on his ability to pick the truth from what he was told, but dear old Jack was confused by many things in life. That must have been evident to you when you two worked together. It's of no importance now, of course. When Jack ran across Suzanna's mother in 1956 she was a university student who worked in a brothel in Budapest to supplement her income. Suzanna was born nine years later when her mother was twenty-six and not in good health. With help from this country Taline and her daughter were resettled with family members living very close to the Russian border, in a place named Akhtala. The family had money to which we surreptitiously added more, helping to pay for Suzanna's education.

  “Curse me and mine if you wish, but the head of the department who you met after your convalescence from the gunshot wound you incurred, Dickie Blythe-Smith, played the long game in Akhtala by using Jack, his name and Taline's past. Details of that will serve no purpose. Suffice it to say Suzanna was tutored to achieve success in every walk of life, working exclusively for me after Jack passed on.”

  Chapter Eleven: Nusaybin

  Liam Catlin meet Narak Vanlian, code name Fade, a Syrian by birth but British by persuasion, in the car park outside the arrivals gate at Aleppo airport just as the outside cameras were temporally shut down by technology available to GCHQ through Geoffrey Harwood's AIS at Greenwich. The Syrian security offices were not in slightest bit interested in the British passport holding Catlin, who was a regular visitor to Syria having stayed in the country for various amounts of time. After a brief exchange of pleasantries Vanlian drove the Syrian registered Land Rover towards the Turkish border crossing at Nusaybin. Liam had been sent to accomplish two missions, one to work with Narak and reinforce the friendship with the Sunni Kurds and second to retrieve the data inside the first Gladio B file. That night they were welcomed by a group of Kurds they both knew well. When terms and tactics were settled with the Kurdish emissaries, Catlin and Vanlian immediately set about their assignment, travelling for two days and nights through the arid countryside of Turkey meeting the Kurdish leaders they were cultivating. Each leader wanted one thing, weapons, and conveniently Catlin knew of a British company who could supply all what they wanted. Venery Munitions Ltd; an airline and shipping company registered in Weybridge, Surrey, England. The first of many consignments from the company arrived from Egypt at Gaziantep Airport in Turkey the day after Fraser's fictitious captain in the Logistical Corps had landed at Aleppo airport on a flight from Afghanistan. The three did not met, they had no need. By the time Fraser's mythical army man crossed the Turkish border he had become Simon Ratcliffe, Middle East executive officer for Venery Munitions Ltd. Once inside Turkey Ratcliffe set about the distribution of his cargo from the company's offices in the centre of Gaziantep, a few miles from the airport.

  Later the same night as Liam Catlin's arrival, Ratcliffe moved back into his company residence, alongside the cool clear stream on the periphery of the scenic Yıl Atatürk Kültür Park. His 'wife' had missed him. At least that was the impression she gave on the doorstep of their home as he alighted from the taxi. Kiss, kiss, hug, hug—oh how I've missed you, darling! Inside the home that reflected his notable position in life, their relationship was far from normal. They had what Fraser called an engaged audience who paid handsomely for the information Mr Ratcliffe could deliver via the wives of the government officials Venery had to deal with, and for the information the beautiful Mrs Ratcliffe gathered from the embassy boys that caught her eye when accompanying her husband to dinners or soirées. As always sex was the pecuniary consideration above all other when it came to persuade a rabbit to disclose that which they should not, and of course the supplied information was first seen by those that maned the Turkish desk on the fifth floor at the Box, Vauxhall, London.

  * * *

  Taking turns to sleep Catlin and Vanlian made their way northwards towards the Black Sea resort of Sarpi, where they crossed the border into Georgia and settled into a hotel in Batumi for their first decent night's sleep. The following day they set off on the hazardous drive across snow-covered Georgia to Armenia. They were met at the border by Christopher Irons, an MI6 operative who had recently been posted to the United Kingdom Embassy in Yerevan, under the guise of a UK Government official visiting the First World War graves sites with authorisation to interact with local commissions on any renovation work required. However, Irons had spent the last two months in Basra, training special forces in the capturing of specific targets. On the night of Tuesday, December 14th, Catlin and Vanlian stayed at the British Embassy in Yerevan as Christopher Irons' guests.

  * * *

  In the early hours of the following morning, December 15th, Solomon notified me of the fact that GCHQ had alerted Group of substantially heavier than normal radio traffic issuing from our embassy in Yerevan. There were three coded signals and four in open text. AIS followed the signals and found that the three coded messages were to a mobile phone number registered to a name that didn't exist at a New York address that similarly was non-existent. When Solomon asked his opposite number at GCHQ for the deciphered messages he was told he could decipher them himself using standard coding books. He tried but found they were in a code that was not logged in his security safe. He checked the duty officers' safe, along with the front security office's safe. As a last resort he brought the three indecipherable signals to me. I had no code books. I followed protocol to the letter and reported this breach upwards to Sir John Scarlett at the Box in Vauxhall and Sir Elliot Zerby at Millbank. Within seconds of my scrambled phone-receiver being replaced, Hannah had a call on hold from Geoffrey Harwood at Millbank, a few buildings closer to Parliament than Sir Elliot's office.

  “You don't need to know what those signals refer to or to whom they were sent, Joseph. Just log them as communiques from outstation YA and leave it there. You are standing on people's fingers as you tread heavy-footed through the maze. We appreciate your candour, dear boy, but confine yourself to being a good soldier and do what I say, please. That is the end of this conversation.” For him it evidently was, but I couldn't leave it there.

  * * *

  Wearing my overcoat and my distinctive cap I sent the duty officer to quickly exit the building and jump into the waiting official car with Jimmy at the wheel and Frank holding the rear door open for him. Meanwhile I travelled under and beside the various pipes of all dimensions and some minutes later left The Hole by the tunnel that emerged in Paris Garden, a side street off Stamford Street. Hannah was waiting in her inconspicuous grey Ford Focus. It had worked as nobody was tailing us. She drove sedately with me flat across the rear seat, arriving at the corner of Knightsbridge and Old Barrack Yard early that Wednesday evening. I walked from there to the Grenadier public house in Wilton Row where I met with Razin. He was beaming from ear to ear.

  “If only my name was East then East meets West in a backstreet pub to raise the steel curtain, Mr West,” he laughed, and I smiled back.

  “Churchill called it an Iron Curtain, Fyodor, and in any case I thought you lot had preached perestroika to the peasants who lapped it up, glasnost and all. Do they still queue outside McDonald's in Moscow? Cheers,” I added as I took the glass of whisky he held out to me.

  “I went there when it first opened. It was party policy to attend. Big Macs were a novelty in those days. As is your request, my English friend. First, what makes you think that your coded message is Russian?”

  “A hunch, that's all.”

  “So it could be one of yours that you can't read and no one's telling you what it says. You're taking a risk.”

  “I would be if it contained our firing codes. That would be treason on my part, but as this is not I'm fine with giving you a peep at it.”

  A table became vacant so we sat at the side of the window almost on top of the radiator, a comforting change from the cold easterly wind that was howling outside and had blasted through my leg. Razin looked at my copies of the two signals from the British
Embassy from which I had removed the recipient's address.

  “Yes, I can decode this, Mr West, it's a standard Russian encrypted message. When was it sent?”

  “Today,” I answered, almost choking as I swallowed my Scotch.

  “If you have some spare paper I'll do it now for you.”

  From one of those huge outside pockets on the front of his greenish coloured trench coat he removed a paperback copy of The Lady with the Dog, a short story by Anton Chekhov.

  “This week we have Chekhov, next week who knows, and the procedure changes each week as well. Page number, line number, word number along that line from the right, the following week perhaps count the word number from the left margin. Sometimes when it is addressed for me only, there is a fourth number that refers to the letters in certain lines that make a separate word. We also change the edition. There was a time when Great Britain had a ghost walking unnoticed through our corridors in Moscow Centre and climbing ladders to the top floor for more than a peek at what was happening. That ghost gave your country a code one day that filled your feeding bowl for years. When that was discovered we changed things, but just our choice of literature, not the method of sending or decoding the signals. This week it a simple short story with no complications at all. Let me begin while you replenish our glasses, Mr Director General.”