The Widow's Son

by Daniel Kemp

  * * *

  “We have our usual tail, sir.” It was Frank who alerted me. “It's a White Opal this time, approximately one hundred yards behind and keeping a steady distance. I registered the number with Solomon at Group and he confirms it's Russian. There are no diplomatic markings on the plates. It started following as soon as we left Mr and Mrs Ugherts'. I was wondering if you wanted to give them something else to think about this time, sir?” he inquired.

  Frank's official in-house label was my PPO, my principal protection officer. He did not work inside Group, he worked for Group. That meant he did not regularly fraternise with members of Group other than myself and those I chose to introduce. He had been recruited from the Marine Corps, the same regiment as the two pals of Job's who had helped me ten years or so previously. In that episode of my life they had assisted in two executions which although illegal were justifiable to both myself and Fraser and JIC protocol. I judged Frank to be as reliable as they had been when I'd read the files on all my in-house resources.

  “Yes, Frank, I think we should. Let's get that chopper overhead and then block the road, Jimmy. Make a big play without pulling weapons. You up for it, Hannah?”

  Within in a mile we had the road closed behind the now stationary Opal and all four of us surrounding the occupants threatening to un-holster our handguns. Diplomatic passes were waved in our faces as we lined the three passengers up lying face down on the damp tarmac with their hands behind their heads. They were all unarmed. I had a dog unit arrive and then a police transport vehicle that carted them off for a firearm discharge examination before anyone was allowed any contact with the Russian Embassy. I was expecting Geoffrey Harwood to call me, but he didn't. Instead, we made Lavington without any interruptions. Once there Hannah and I were undisturbed listening to Fraser's remote tape recording of his intruder and then his murder in my office after all the latest technology had been applied and the sounds made much crisper and more audible. The replay machines were operated by a technician named Saul.

  * * *

  Fraser must have heard a footstep and realised the silent alarm would have pinged up in Millbank. Knowing that whatever help was on its way would probably arrive too late, he set about his final preparations. His narrative was steady and clear:

  “There's a noise from somewhere near the kitchen. I'm praying that it's you that finds the tape, Patrick. I haven't got much time, but all that I had I've shoved into the Sarah Mariah file sometime back as insurance. It doesn't explain everything but I hope it helps. The computer password is the date you met Dickie Blythe-Smith at the Travellers Club. Shake the cages and gets results, laddie.”

  His voice fell silent and was followed by the sharp click of a door catch. Next came Fraser's raised voice questioning whoever was there along with Saul's interpretation of what was occurring:

  'Who are you?'

  'Move your hands away from that computer,' a voice demanded.

  “We believe this to be a simulated voice, sir,” the technician informed us both. I asked Saul why he thought the voice was not real. My question was brushed aside with a scornful smile similar to Geoffrey Harwood's plastered on his face—

  “We have ways of knowing, sir.”

  'Why did you shut it down, you stupid old git?' This time the voice was not synthetic. It was shaky, harsh and erratic.

  'I didn't plan to shoot you. All I wanted was information from that computer, but now I've got no choice.'

  From the tape came the suppressed shot from the Russian handgun, a faint click of metal and the almost silent sonic boom. The weapon was not the make-believe silenced variety in movies and TV shows that in reality do very little to suppress a firing noise. The plastic sliding sound of the computer screen being turned came next, closely followed by a muffled rustling noise that I attributed to the killer thumbing through Fraser's missing notepad. Then the noise of a zip being undone and the identifiable sound of paper being stuffed into a pocket of a coat.

  In the distance came the sirens of the police responders and the faint leaden helicopter blades beating its path towards the house. As the piercing decibels increased, the metallic slipping of heavy bolts and the thud of a key releasing the lock of a door could be clearly heard. Nowhere had we heard any footfall. Within seconds of the assassin making his escape came the metal clattering of the helicopter hovering nearby, then cars sliding to a halt and feet running across the gravel towards the house. A heavy knock on the Ugherts' front door was followed by the crash of glass as the whole triple-glazed window in Fraser's office was smashed down by sledgehammer blows.

  “There's a man's body slumped behind a desk with no sign of movement, guv. Shall I go in?” It was the voice of the police constable who first saw Fraser's dead body.

  A forceful, 'no, do not enter the building,' came the reply, quickly followed by Molly Ughert's discordant voice joining the outside mayhem of more arriving police responders. Although it was indistinct it was possible to hear her ask incredulously, 'what's going on?' To which the police officer replied that he needed her to leave the property. Sadly I never heard any paramedic ask where the injured person was.

  The only sounds left on the tape were those of the pathologist's call to the mortuary asking for transport, and the first faint sounds of the forensic photographers with the evidence recorders going about their business. The outside pandemonium was heightened by barking dogs being added to the theatre just before the final curtain was pulled across the performance with no raised voice calling 'bravo' or 'encore'.

  * * *

  Despite an extensive search by the dogs, aided by the lights from the helicopter, nothing relating to the killer was found during the night, however in the daylight hours of Friday morning motorcycle tracks were discovered in the woods behind the house. The consensus of opinion was that the escaping murderer must have worn night vision glasses as the helicopter would have seen any headlights. There were no traffic cameras on the side-roads and nothing unusual was reported from any motorway cameras.

  * * *

  By the time I had arrived at Lavington Street the Home Office had been busy as had the Russian ambassador. The permanent secretary to the Minister of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs wanted to know why I had impeded the free passage of three Russians with diplomatic papers. I told him that I had legitimate reasons to believe they could have been involved in Fraser's murder. I told him the fact that no residue of a discharged firearm was found on any of them was immaterial, the fact that a Russian firearm had been used was not. It was relevant. When alone I eventually found time to return Fyodor Nazarov Razin's call. I did not tell him that Fraser had been murdered. I told him that he had died of a heart attack. He offered sympathy and assistance. The offer of help I appreciated, the sympathy I found awkward to accept. We had much to discuss, ideally after Fraser's killer had been found.

  In my world Sir Elliot Zerby at MI5 was my boss, but in practice Group was beyond both his and Sir John Scarlett's jurisdiction. My organisation was answerable directly to the Home Office and to the Chairman of the Joint Intelligence Committee, a position which since Fraser had relinquished it, no one occupied. By accepting the Whitehall job offer, Geoffrey Harwood had removed himself from the hierarchy of the intelligence service, moving sideways into politics. Nevertheless, in the pecking order that was represented by the mandarins of the civil service he was one step above me on the slippery ladder. Whilst he and I were alone together at the Ugherts' home he had asked if I thought Raynor, he persisted in using Fyodor Nazarov Razin's file name, was behind the murder. I answered no to that question, adding that regardless of what I thought everyone who knew of Fraser must be a suspect. There was a peculiar look on his face when I said that.

  * * *

  By 4:30am I had contacted every departmental head of all the external and internal desks of both intelligence communities, and I had securely transferred every file my security clearance could access that Fraser had worked on in the last eight years over
to Group. I passed the files that I could on to Hannah and both the station officer and duty officer, who started looking for clues straight away. I was about to start on the Sarah Mariah file which I'd left on Fraser's PC for my eyes only when my solitude was disturbed by Michael Simmons, my mister dependable day station officer who had arrived early for work that Friday morning.

  “Mr Harwood is on his way over, sir. He asked if you were free, but if not he said he would wait. He's due to arrive in fifteen minutes.”

  Ordinarily it should have been me requesting an audience with him, but this was a far from an ordinary time. I was wondering if it had anything to do with the tense look he had on his face when we had last spoken.

  “Look, Patrick, I want to be completely open with you. Incidentally, is it okay if I drop the 'Joseph' bit? All a bit pompous between friends, I think. I'm a little out of my depth now that Fraser Ughert's gone. I do realise he'd stepped down, but he was still there if you get my meaning. It wasn't as though we got on well, the opposite was true as you know. You and he were so close that if I'm honest, it made me sick with envy. But he was the buffer where I could fall back on for help in any crisis that was above my head. And I'm sinking here, Patrick. I really have no idea in the slightest what is going on, dear boy.” Up until the 'dear boy' point, I was actually believing him but it stopped at that condescending remark.

  “Get to the point, Geoffrey, as you may have noticed I have my hands full.”

  “That is the point. You're now the one in charge. Oliver Nathan sends his condolences and his congratulations on your temporary elevation to Chair of the Joint Intelligence Committee. I'm only the messenger boy, of course, but you have my support, dear boy. One hundred percent behind you, Patrick. You have increased levels of not only security clearance but you now have the extra authority. In theory at least, you outrank me, being only answerable to Parliament and even then, only the most senior ministers thereof.”

  “Do you mean I have the power to order toilets rolls without asking your department?” He sighed at my scoffing remark without offering any comment. My foolishness was unnecessary and irresponsible in the circumstances. I put it behind me.

  “Does temporarily in charge mean until Fraser's killer is found, Geoffrey?”

  “Not necessarily, no! It could be permanent depending on results of course.”

  “And who's judging the results?” I asked suspiciously.

  “Well, no one person. So don't get on that socialist platform of yours and start quoting that slogan you are so fond of—'of each to their own,' and what have you. It makes operational sense for you to take control. You shared Fraser's confidence. You are currently in contact with the Russian in this country and you must know that Liam Catlin is where he is because Ughert put him there. GCHQ and my Greenwich AIS department can configure any signal traffic to and from him if you're in doubt as to his location. I was never privy to the mechanism of Fraser's Machiavellian mind and I very much doubt I would have made sense of it had I have been so. You, on the other hand, think along parallel lines. Oliver and I are in agreement that it's early days for you to do the job, however, someone has to and you're the Charlie, dear boy. Soak it up and I'm being sincere when I say I hope the position becomes permanently yours.”

  Geoffrey Harwood was covering his back and hoping for a dismal performance by yours truly and then a plea from up high for the sacrifice of his political career, accompanied by a multitude of incentives to take the JIC position. He had nothing to lose, but on the other hand, nor did I. The belief in coincidence had never held a high position in my psyche, and the arrival of a trained killer in the shape of Fraser's mysterious Armenian contact, seemed too advantageous to fit the killer's profile. Although there was nothing in the Sarah Mariah file to point the finger of accusation at Suzanna Kandarian, she was I deemed the next person to see in this investigation. However, that was something for the daylight hours, a time after dealing with the ensuing melee of inquiring voices on the secure telephone lines, unlike the throbbing of the burner phone in my pocket. Fyodor was incessant, but I could do nothing to ease his worries.

  * * *

  Before speaking to Razin I needed to put Suzanna some place other than Hannah's aunt's address. I could not interview her there whilst the aunt was in the same house and according to Hannah, she seldom went out. I needed somewhere private. Fraser had what he'd called a bolt hole in Peckham. It was not a safe house in the service accepted sense of the word. It was not conspicuously safe in any sense of the word safe. A third floor, end of balcony flat in a tenement block on a council estate near the high street with constantly changing nearby residents. Fraser's use of it had been clouded in mystery with speculation varying between the fanciful and the bizarre, but it suited my purposes, no matter what its history. Suzanna was waiting at the flat as I'd requested, but she was not alone and I had not anticipated that.

  * * *

  Seven-fifteen that same Friday morning, Christopher Irons, the MI6 operative who had escorted Martin Lennox, the Russian spy, home from our embassy in Armenia two days earlier, was waiting in Schiphol airport, Amsterdam for the incoming flight from Odessa, Ukraine. At the predetermined spot in the arrivals lounge he ordered a coffee and sat patiently for his contact. The flight carrying Exxon Mobil chief negotiator Josh Polish was punctual. Polish left the twenty-three-page document detailing the proposed Black Sea and Arctic venture with the Russian oil giant Rosneft lying on the chair next to Irons, who promptly put it inside his document case and headed off to the taxi rank and the rush-hour ride into central London.

  * * *

  Once again it was the Stamford Street exit I used to meet Jimmy, this time driving a previously unused car from the motor pool. Even allowing for its fresh use we doubled across our route several times before we both were satisfied that we hadn't a tail then drove off to meet with Suzanna in Fraser's bolt-hole. When I met Frank on the communal balcony outside number 37 Tiptree House, Church Road, Peckham, the first words out of his mouth were to apologise.

  “Sorry, sir, there was nothing I could do. He was here when I got here. I couldn't call you as he took my phone. You'd better go in then you'll understand.”

  Suzanna was in what passed as a kitchen and Christopher Irons, whom I'd met once at the elite training centre at the Royal Marines Base, Poole, was seated on a sofa looking straight at the front door.

  “Come on in, laddie, we're all waiting for you.” The hair on the back of my neck stood bolt upright.

  Chapter Fifteen: The Resurrection

  Only five people at Chearsley were aware of Fraser's orchestrated death: Molly Ughert, who with her performance should appear at the Old Vic on a regular basis, the Home Office pathologist who was Fraser's fishing partner, the two men who placed his body in the private ambulance and the senior police officer who arrived first on the scene; all three were members of his Masonic lodge. When Fraser was first appointed Chairman of the Joint Intelligence Committee, Christopher Irons played the same role as Frank was now doing for me; he was his consociate and not only that, he became a close friend. Suzanna Kandarian also knew of the deception; she had choreographed it.

  “I needed her for her expertise and knowledge. Was it the Russian handgun that had you convinced, laddie?”

  His taunting only served to irritate me further as he skirted around my question of how he came by that Russian handgun with a mere look towards the ceiling as if I should already know. Eventually, after highlighting my ineptitude as a detective as many times as he thought necessary, he came to the point of his trickery.

  “It was crucial that you were appointed as Chair of the Joint Intelligence. Absolutely crucial, laddie! It means that you can draw the sensitive files that could have been denied to you at Group. No matter how I disguised it, had I requested a sight of the old material, bells may have rung in the wrong ears. Molly and Graham, my fishing buddy, will hold up on my funeral arrangements until after Christmas if necessary so you and I, Patrick, have only a s
plattering of days to find the meaning in those Gladio B files or we will be searching for a spare cadaver to fill a coffin. Suzanna's here to keep the locals from breaking down the door, which jokes apart could happen if any become suspicious. She will play the part of a prostitute and Christopher is elevated to her pimp. You and Frank will be her regular punters. As I said, she did the spadework for my little pretence. Pretty convincing, eh?

  “I need you to start with some solid information. Three years ago Exxon and Mobil oil merged to become the world's largest 'Big Oil' company and will become the largest trading company ranked by capitalisation in a few years to come. The man who owns that company is in line to become yet another Presidential nominee of America that you will come up against. His family is not only extremely powerful in their own right, they have many influential friends scattered around the world. We believe they are one of the inner eight that the two of us have spoken of. We have a jump on Fyodor with this information. He knows nothing of the association, laddie, but I suspect he will and I'm sure he can add the numbers up as good as I can.” There was a pause as he locked eyes with me.

  “ExxonMobil is due to open offices in Yerevan and to formalise their plans with a Russian State oil company for oil and gas pipelines crisscrossing that part of the world which will be, we believe, divided up between the States and Russia. Martin Lennox, the Russian spy who should know these things, described that part of the world as an area from the Ukraine and the Black Sea, across to the Caspian Sea then down to the Persian Gulf, obviously encompassing Afghanistan. It is my belief, although Lennox denies knowledge of this, that Iraq, Iran, Israel, and Saudi Arabia are compromised somewhere in the game plan. Can you imagine the power a company that controlled almost all the world's fuel resources would have over the rest of us? And please, don't quote the other OPEC producing countries, they will be swallowed up by a conglomerate with that amount of political persuasion. And yes, before you ask, Henry Mayler fits somewhere into that picture. I'm a little unclear where, but that birthdate of his is the only key I have at present.”