by Daniel Kemp
When I returned to our brass-topped window table overlooking the shadowy mews with its dampening cobbles and tiny cottages where more was garaged behind the differently painted double-doors than a horse and carriage, Razin had deciphered the first communication and was about to complete the second. I watched his gnarled fingers with manicured nails turn pages of Chekhov's novel then scroll down the paragraphs and along lines, silently mouthing the count as he did so, eventually adding a word to the other side of the finished message.
“Today is an unlucky day for the East, but I can't say that it's anything else for the West. I have lost an asset in New York but you have confirmation of a traitor in Armenia. The first message was from Martin Lennox who signs himself as communications director South Caucasus region of Eurasia. Before we go any further I must request your phone, Mr West. For mere seconds, I assure you, and then I'll return it. I'm going to give you an American FBI officer on the express understanding that what I'm doing is solely because of our mutual interest in Henry Mayler's Rosicrucians. Understood?” When I had nodded my agreement he continued.
“For what I am providing you will give me the courtesy of allowing a call to Lennox and give him a head start from the three British agents in your embassy where he is.” He went to the other end of the bar and made his call to the communications director South Caucasus region of Eurasia. On returning, he asked, “Did someone at Joint Intelligence tell you that Lennox was one of mine?” Before I could answer with a lie he answered his own question.
“Of course not, how could they have known?” With another smile plastered on his face he continued, only this time reading from the deciphered messages: “Although you have redacted the address where the message was sent I know Lennox is signalling the New York City District FBI office as his message is to Field Agent Robert Hanssen. The message reads:
From Moscow Communications Station: 7 Ilyinka Gates Square
One/Two 1) Liam Catlin, English/Number 231457J CN/Antelope, and 2) Narak Vanlian CN/Fade. primary Syrian/File Central Committee Number AG142 AG 59012478T with affiliations to JIC Brit, crossed border Syria/Turkey then Turkey/Georgia and entered Armenia at Ninotsminda Tuesday, December 14 in company of station resident Yerevan at 6pm local time. Reason Unknown.
“The second signal is more ambiguous and needs to be as it refers to eliminating both your Catlin and Vanlian. Lennox did not know that his signals would be intercepted of course, but took precautions just in case. There are no specific instructions regarding places and times, all it says is, quote:
Two/Two. C/V not to progress further than centre YA. Please arrange via Arnold.
“Do you know this Arnold, Mr West?”
“No, I don't, but by the tone of your voice I guess I can count you amongst those who wished they did.”
Chapter Twelve: Wednesday Evening
Fraser was sitting well back in his chair staring at the computer screen with his glasses lying on his colourful blotter in front. He did not hear me enter his office. Molly had opened the door before I'd rung the bell and on seeing Hannah sitting at the steering wheel of her little car her facial expression changed from an appeasing, smug grin to one of coquettish astonishment. Unlike her husband's face, I could read Molly's facial expressions easily.
“New flame, Patrick? Shall I be laying an extra place for Christmas lunch and warn Geraldine? If I know anything about my sister I know how much she was looking forward to your exclusive company.”
“No,” I laughed, “that's my PA, Hannah, Molly. Nothing going on there I can assure you. Far too busy for that sort of thing. But I am shocked you knew about Geraldine and me. I thought we'd kept all that secret.” Her returned snigger was acerbic and mocking.
“Probably from Fraser you did. Away from his secret life he only sees what's straight ahead. I have age and experience on my side, young man. Plus I expect you are no different from most men and I know my sister. Go and get your Hannah and point her towards the kitchen. Fraser's at his desk, been there since before dawn. He needs to slow down, Patrick.” Her caution was not lost on me.
* * *
“Anything wrong, Fraser? You look worried,” I asked as I lugged a heavy chair towards his desk and sat in it.
“Yes, radically with my hearing! I never heard you arrive. Despite that I think you're right, laddie, there is something wrong. Something seriously wrong.” He replaced his glasses before continuing.
“This second Gladio B file has another file hidden inside, but I can't get through the firewall that's inserted on it. It's in a code that I've never seen.”
“You told me you'd seen inside both Gladio B files. Read it all.”
“Well, I have, but this one was hiding under some encryption that appeared when I clicked on an 'insert tab' I hadn't looked into.”
“That's more than likely the encryption key Razin mentioned when we were at the Savoy. But if we bring him in on it he'll have to see the whole file. We can't allow that, can we?”
“No, Patrick, we can't. Perhaps the only man who could get us in would be Arnold, but we have catch him first. A chicken and egg scenario.”
“Not necessarily, there could be another way. Razin gave me a heads-up on a coding system the Russians have as operational when I met him this afternoon. He said they're using a system that once was broken but the principle was sound. All that's changed is the method of deciphering. If that method could be broken, then your box of tricks can be opened. Razin called a Martin Lennox, the signals officer in our embassy in Yerevan, from my phone. He's Razin's man! I had my station officer send a direct signal to our ambassador, bypassing Lennox and his communication staff. The essence of it all is that approximately five minutes after Razin called, Lennox left the consulate for Zvartnots Airport, our time 16:25. Both Catlin and Vanlian are watching him wait for his flight to Moscow as we speak. We can't physically lift him from there without causing a diplomatic incident, but I'm reckoning that if you spoke to him directly you could offer him an incentive to switch flights and return to England. Use my phone and he might think that Razin is behind it, if not he'll wonder what the hell is going on. In the unlikely event of him refusing your offer, we can order Liam to take him somewhere and get the pad-code another way. You said yourself that there could be a Russian inside your circle and perhaps he could have had a hand in the coding.” Our eyes met, but there was no emotion showing from either of us. I carried on explaining my plan.
“Lennox has no close family as such, but he does have an elderly mother in a nursing home in Gloucestershire. There are ninety minutes remaining before he boards the Moscow flight and three hours later the knowledge we need will be beyond our grasp. It's a seven-hour flight to London from Zvartnots with one change. We can put Christopher Irons on the seat next to Lennox and let them work up the formula between them.”
Twenty minutes later, after being offered immunity along with various other niceties, Martin Lennox had changed his destination to London and thirty minutes after that Solomon received confirmation that he had boarded the flight with Christopher Irons. Harwood was fuming when Fraser answered his landline telephone and passed the receiver to me.
“Why is your mobile phone not on, Joseph? You have a major position inside Joint Intelligence yet I'm beginning to doubt if you have an ounce of common sense. How can any of your staff at Group get hold of you if something kicks off if they don't have my insight and do not know where you are? You had strict instructions not to interfere with Catlin's role, but you couldn't resist, could you! You're not in charge just yet, and you can't run to uncle Ughert and hide behind his kilt forever. That won't work any longer. Sir John Scarlett is threatening to close down my department at Greenwich because he believes they screwed up with one of his overseas assets. Ordering him off station without explicit permission. I want you in my office at 8am sharp tomorrow morning. I have pencilled in a meeting with the Home Secretary for 8.30. You are to be replaced.”
“Would you rather I'd let our Armenian commu
nications officer, Martin Lennox, fly to Moscow where he could tell the Russian newspapers just how easy it was to cipher off our diplomatic signals and divert them to Moscow Centre, Geoffrey, because that's what would have happened had I not ordered Liam Catlin to keep hold of Lennox's hand until Christopher Irons could bring him home to Heathrow. You could have told me where Catlin was when I gave you a chance and that may have hastened things along. Would you prefer I inform the Home Secretary how intransigent you are with field operations, either unwilling to adjust to the changing sequence of events, or downright unable to? You should carefully consider what I have said before you ask for any resignations, as it could be your signature on the form. Whatever your job is, Geoffrey, you will perform it so much better by staying out of my way, and I'm sure you don't want me to obstruct your passage up the political ladder. Leave me alone and I won't drop any of your psychiatrist's reports in your way. And yes, I do have copies. Lennox is my department's source now. Keep your hands off or my next call goes to CIA headquarters, Langley, with a faxed copy of those trick cyclist's reports.” The line went dead.
“That was particularly cruel, Patrick. How long have you known about Geoffrey?” Fraser asked, with a sly smile on his otherwise screwed up cherub face.
“One of my faults is that I pore over document after document on people I work alongside. I like to know who I can rely on when the walls are crashing down or when someone has a machete hovering over my head. Both situations would require contrasting abilities. I would never use any information to further my career, but it's a different matter if someone wants to stop me from doing my job properly and don't tell me you wouldn't have done the same, Fraser.”
He never replied using a spoken word. Instead his usual inscrutable expression changed to one that acknowledged my singularity just as Molly pushed open the door holding a mug of tea in each hand.
“Why are you looking so satisfied, Fraser?” she asked.
* * *
It was raining hard when Hannah pulled away from the Ugherts' home in the winter's dark and we headed back towards London. As I opened the front passenger door and sat beside her I silently questioned why I'd done that. Why not the back seat where for the most part I had travelled comfortably on the journey here? Then I wondered why it seemed so wrong to sit in the front. I looked for disapproving glances from Fraser or Molly, but we had passed through their gates and onto the main road by the time I'd thought to look. Before we had driven a hundred yards I was a fidgeting wreck, strumming my fingers on my outstretched knees or using them as a set of drums accompanied by a far from melodic hummed tune. I had tossed my briefcase into the rear and in order to get it I needed to lean close to her, reaching to retrieve it from the seat behind hers. In the end my agitation was too much to control without something to grasp onto and nullify my chaotic behaviour. Realising I was going to be embarrassed either way, I gave in and reached for that briefcase. With the feel of a folder I had read a thousand times and could recite backwards occupying my hands and fingers, my physical composure slowly returned, pushing her femininity into the corners of my mind. Our strained conversation alternated from how impressed she was with Molly Ughert's hospitality to Fraser's once exalted position as head of joint intelligence.
'Before working for you, sir, the highest position I held was personal assistant to the deputy head of the Russian desk at The Box. I was in that role for two and half years. But I've never been that close to any of the top floor men in my life before today. I understand you're to spend the holidays with them, Mr West.'
Whether it was her reminder of the forthcoming reunion with Geraldine, that also waited in those corners of my disorientated mind or the impending meeting of the 'good-looking' Suzanna, or maybe something totally away from the female form, but there was something that I couldn't explain restraining me from having a normal conversation and would not let go; perhaps it was the price of six months of chastity.
I resigned myself to concentration on work and it was whilst I was in one of those moments of revision that my thoughts were suddenly broken by a question from Hannah regarding firearms.
“Are you armed, sir? Only there's been a car on our tail for a couple of miles. Pulled out from a lay-by a few hundred yards from the Ugherts' drive. I've tried slowing and then put a bit of a move on but the car stays the same distance behind. As far as I can see there is only one occupant.”
“It could just be a coincidence, Hannah, maybe it just doesn't want to pass?” I replied, trying to spot the offending car in the nearside door mirror.
“Here, sir! Use the main one. I can shift it back afterwards.” Her hand moved towards the driving mirror, and I stopped her before she reached it. But it was not Hannah's hand I grasped, it was Kerry's that I held and Kerry's face I addressed. “Leave it, Kerry! If they see you moving it they'll know they've been seen. Leave it, but pull over at the next opportunity. I will dive out the door making it look as though I need a pee. If it passes us then clock the make and number. As to whether I'm armed or not then yes I am, and I hope you are too. Let's both hope it doesn't come to that.”
“Who's Kerry, sir?” Hannah asked with a coy smile and for a split second I wondered where she had got that name from.
“Someone I knew once. Sorry, I was lost in what I was reading and the name was included in it,” I lied.
“Look there's a roadside café in front. I know it's closed but no matter. I'll jump out at the side of it then you park a little way on towards the exit. If the other car passes you just clock the make and number as I said and we'll run a check, but if it pulls in I'll try for a closer look from my end. Stay in the car, please. No heroics on this shift.”
The car stopped outside the café building, headlights shining at the corner behind which I sheltered. As I un-holstered my pistol I saw the vague outline of Hannah getting out of the car, but in my mind's eye it was Kerry as she approached the George Hotel, in Limerick, seconds before she was grabbed and bundled into a van with me sitting helpless and unaware at the hotel bar.
“Get back,” I shouted towards Hannah's car.
“There's no need for anyone here to get excited. I am unarmed, Mr and Mrs West. Please, put the guns away.”
It was a disembodied women's voice with a heavy foreign intonation coming from sultry lips painted with a contagious smile that was framed by a perfect face. What followed was not so perfect.
“Then the seventh angel blew his trumpet, and there were loud voices in heaven, saying—vitriol. But they didn't say that, did they, Mr West? No, of course not. Mr Ughert used the word vitriol. Except he gave the full definition using just the letters—visit the interior of the earth, and by rectifying what you find there, you will discover the hidden stone. My name is Suzanna Kandarian, and I'm given to understand that I'm expected.”
* * *
There was only one other thing Fraser told me about Suzanna Kandarian apart from being good-looking and that was she was unorthodox, which I guess driving the car she had stolen from the airport where she'd just arrived proved the point. However, the fact she had no place to stay, as she told us, presented problems that demanded anything but a maverick response to deal with, as did the warning from Fraser for the need for complete secrecy regarding her existence. In one of the scarce moments of shared conversation on the drive to the Ugherts' I had learned that Hannah was living with her elderly invalid aunt in a house in Bermondsey, South London and when a chance arose to speak discreetly to her I suggested housing Suzanna with her as her aunt's home help. She jumped at the chance, more, I think, because of the adventure this might produce than the conformity of a live-in helper, and to her question “can I keep the gun, sir?” I answered “yes,” more for persuasion than for any obvious need.
As we drove on towards London, I called the communications centre at Lavington Street to arrange for an anonymous phone call to the local police alerting them of the abandoned stolen vehicle and heard how Solomon had been followed on his detouring trip to t
he carpark at the rear of the Home Office, returning safely but unable to identify the two passengers in the car that had followed.
“I got the number okay and traced it to the Russian Embassy motor pool, but in spite of getting reasonable photographs from the rear-facing camera in the car, sir, I could not match their faces to our databanks.”
The Chapter After Number Twelve: Suzanna Kandarian
Jack Price was working the Soviet outpost of Hungary from 1955 looking for weaknesses he and MI6 could exploit, when he stumbled upon a radical movement inside the Hungarian Working People's party who were plotting to overthrow the Marxist-Leninist government. He met and moved in with a journalist at the Szabad Föld, a weekly newspaper based in Budapest. By June that year not only did Jack have his journalist flat-mate, Emma Nagy, trolling her newspaper leads for his overlords in London but she had introduced him to the brothel where Taline Kandarian plied her trade. He used Taline in many nefarious ways to obtain information from a specific target; the Minister for Internal Affairs. Nearing the second half of October 1956 the political climate that prevailed inside Hungary was changing, encouraged by the United States' covert economic and psychological inducements to break away from the Eastern Bloc. The CIA, although boasting to have operatives and outstations in many Soviet areas of interests, in fact had none and no reliable local sources. Allen Dullas, the director to the CIA, depended entirely on his British cousins.
London's Russian Satellite desk logged a message from Jack Price on the 22nd October 1956 informing them that over twenty thousand students were to convene in central Budapest and demand independence from Russia. A signal the following day told of over two hundred thousand demonstrators having gathered outside parliament, demolishing part of a monument dedicated to Josef Stalin and raising the Hungarian Independent flag from his boots! London ordered Jack to intensify and widen his efforts at gathering information. Emma Nagy's uncle was the Hungarian Working Party's secretary and when shots were fired, his organisation seized guns from military depots and distributed them to the protestors who went on to vandalise symbols of the Communist regime. He told his niece that he had heard that a Soviet military intervention had been requested by parliament. By 0200hours on 24 October, acting in accordance with orders of Georgy Zhukov, the Soviet defence minister, Soviet tanks entered Budapest. Although Jack had put a stop to his love affair with Emma Nagy, she still held affection for him. A little before midnight she telephoned him in advance of the Russian occupation.
