by Daniel Kemp
A lengthy uncontrolled sigh left his lips as he sat and reflected on his inadequate knowledge. I had nothing to add in the way of comfort, but comfort of a sort was on hand. Suzanna sauntered into the room carrying two sparkling glasses and an unopened bottle of his favourite oak cask, single malt whisky.
“I bought three bottles,” she declared smilingly as a watery sun fought through the smoke from his pipe to assist the unshaded ceiling lamp.
“I've read about you,” I said, pouring the golden whisky into both glasses. “While you're here, Suzanna, can I put something to bed, Fraser?” I asked and he nodded his acquiescence whilst she remained standing.
“I know what you said about Henry travelling to New York after that meeting with Razin in Kabul, but you haven't covered why it took two hours five minutes to answer Henry Mayler's cry for help. Would it have anything to do with Suzanna cutting off Bernard Higgins' head over in Khost? And if so why the fuck have you been lying to me all the time? Here's another question while you're thinking of ducking out of that one,” I was angry and it showed. “Why did you need Mayler to tell Razin I was to be appointed head of Group? Why not just tell him yourself?” I finished my Scotch in one gulp and reached out for the bottle, but the black-haired beautiful gipsy towering above me had it in her hand and was beginning to fill my glass while I stared straight into her soulless eyes.
“Suzanna did not sever Bernard's head, Patrick. That was done because of his affiliation with the CIA officer I told you of. But yes, that was the reason for the delay in answering Henry. I needed confirmation of Bernard's death. I have not been lying to you. This subterfuge was necessary for the reasons I've already said and to convince Hardballs. For not one moment am I suggesting the Geoffrey Harwood would be in league with any outside agency, nevertheless his chosen circle contains politicians with whom he habitually associates. I have never trusted those of a political nature. Fortunately we don't have to worry about popularity. Do we, Suzanna?”
That last statement was sternly directed at the thirty-seven-year-old woman who would not take her wide, direct and chilling eyes off me. She left the room and silently I was relieved. She scared me to hell and back. I ignored her exit.
“Have you any thoughts you would like to share on who Henry Mayler met in New York after rushing off there in November, Fraser? I won't ask him in case something compromising turns up.” My pride was hurt.
“He didn't say, laddie, but ask away if you wish.”
“How about William B. Guerny II? How does he fit in?” A puff on a pipe preceded his reply.
“Suzanna cleaned up after Razin and Henry left Al Hasaketh. The body on the ground was dead as Henry suspected. Suzanna and I had reasonable suspicion who the second man was. Guerny was found and I wanted information that only he would know. I deemed it necessary to keep him alive until we had no further use for him. Does that shock you, laddie?”
“No, but I am beginning to get doubts about this operation. How did you know where Henry was going and where to send Suzanna?”
“Hadad, Patrick. He was rotten and we knew it. That's how Razin was at the rendezvous and not a Pakistan security man.”
I sat and thought about that for a few moments, during which time I could hear Frank speaking to Christopher Irons about the training at Poole. It had never crossed my mind that Frank had undergone the same courses as we had.
“I can't see any relevance to the security of this country if it's only big business you're after, Fraser. What role has the Joint Intelligence Committee in all of this?”
“Ever heard of fracking, Patrick, or to give it its full name Hydraulic Fracturing? If not, I suggest you cram up on it. Also look up antidotes to methanol poisoning, it could come in handy. The long term aspiration of the company I've spoken of, ExxonMobil, is to start hydraulic blasting in the Arctic Circle to find gas and oil. Methanol is one of the propellants used. It's a poison that you've read of recently. Suzanna leaves some evidence of its use to remind those in charge of the toxicity of their poison. She hopes they might take notice. You and I are too cynical to believe that they would, aren't we? Do you honestly think that an uncontrolled operator will pay much attention to safety in the Arctic or in the Middle East? These types of people have no regard for life other than the life their profits buy. It is our business.”
“Okay, I take your point, but where did you hide your magnanimity when it came to Alaz Karabakh and old Hadad, Mayler's rabbit and driver? You were Henry's Control for the year Bernard Higgins was unavailable, were you not? So where was Bernard Higgins for the year between Henry meeting Razin in Khost and then meeting again in Kabul? Why was Henry Mayler sent to Khost if not to find Razin?”
“I'll try to tackle one at a time, laddie. Let's do Bernard Higgins. The straight answer is I have no answer. The little I do know is that he and Henry attended a press party held at what was to become the site of the American Embassy in Kabul in December 2001. While at that impromptu party Bernard met a NSA operative named Franklin Dubass. Born in Cape Town, South Africa but a nationalised American due to his mother being one of theirs. Dubass was lost to any signal intelligence the day after that party. Completely vanished. Strange to think nobody wiped his past clean, but there we have it. Henry remembers Bernard talking to an American who was distinctive in a couple of ways; he was completely bald with an ugly scar running from the top of head to his collar line at the back of his head. Henry asked around and found the name.
“That night Bernard made an excuse to Henry, said he had the chance to get useful intel from Dubass and pass it on up, so be a good boy and don't shout too loud if he wasn't seen for a few days. Henry waited patiently for a week, but no show from Bernard. Henry's message to that effect found me, and I moved him back to standby readiness until further notice. That was easy as we have friends in journalism who are always in need of a decent freelance photographer. Notwithstanding any favours being drawn on, it was an awkward situation for me to deal with, having to keep a low profile yet run a comprehensive review of our standing. Why, for example, had Bernard never tried to contact Henry? But Henry was my main concern. My second was Razin. I did not want him getting strung out and anxious. I pulled no punches in trying to trace this Franklin Dubass, but not a sniff. Then, I think it was the tenth of November this year I heard that Bernard's body had been found. Obviously the situation regarding my involvement in the verification of that was as tense as it had been when he had first disappeared. When I had the confirmation I instructed Suzanna in the tradecraft used between Henry and Bernard and she took over the messaging. That's when I assigned him to Syria to follow Karabakh. We've gone in a circle but finally we've fallen upon my second regret I spoke of regarding Bernard Higgins. I can never be one hundred percent sure that Henry was not compromised by the affinity Higgins found with the NSA man, Dubass. If Henry was not as important as he is then I would have ordered his annihilation to cover any breach of Fyodor Nazarov Razin's cover. I can't be sure how Razin would react if he knew of this lapse in security. It's worrying, Patrick and it's a loophole I don't like.”
He leant forward in his chair, placing his head in his hands, staring at the faded floral carpets as if looking for faults in the weave. From nowhere Suzanna glided into the room as if walking on air. I hadn't noticed that extra deftness before and perhaps it was the severity that had impacted upon him that focused my curiosity, but the extent of her assiduous attention to his distraught condition exceeded my expectations. She knelt beside him adding her hands to his and turned his head towards the smooth skin of her face, then she gently kissed him on the lips, pulling away with an enigmatic smile across her face. Fraser regained his collectedness, smiling reassuringly at her. They touched hands before she once again refreshed our glasses, remaining where she was.
“Is Molly aware of Suzanna?” I asked as she stood. I didn't know what reply I expected, but I had not bargained for what I got.
“Yes, Patrick, she is. Suzanna is Jack Price's daughter.”
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br /> Chapter Sixteen: Jack Price and Others
“I was Jack's rookie back in 1956. I'd been destined for the service before birth as the Ugherts had served in one capacity or another since time immemorial. After the usual period of life at the family home near Edinburgh, I was boarded out at Glenalmond College, eight miles from Perth in Scotland, as was my great-grandfather and grandfather before me. In the same steps as those two I attended Corpus Christi college at Oxford University. It was in my penultimate year that I was presented to a person whom my English literature tutor simply called a government representative; it was Jack. Apparently, the two of them had served together in Italy at the end of the War. My tutor, a Mr Grace, was caught in an explosion of some kind and lost the bottom half of his leg. There's no space in my memory to recall exactly what Jack Price said, all I know is that I went straight from Oxford to preliminary school at Cranleigh in Surrey. I did the standard four weeks in Inverness on firearms, then on to Lord Montague's estate at Beaulieu in the New Forest where I think I stayed for almost a year. I guess it was all much the same in your days, Patrick. Observation and survival with as many skills as needed to fulfil those two necessities. Jack picked me up from Waterloo station when I was turfed out and thrown to the wolves. I think that was in 1955. In 1956 Jack, with me running after his shirt-tails so to speak, were in Budapest and Jack introduced me to Taline.”
“So Jack stayed in a relationship with this Taline for nine years and said nothing of it to me when I was asking about his past. I felt sorry for him when he told me his two children had left him and never contacted him. Perhaps they knew and took sides with his wife when she left him. It's funny how you think you know someone but you really know so little about them.”
“You didn't know Jack for long, Patrick. I knew him for thirty odd years and he was still surprising me until he died. I knew nothing of his connection to the Royal Family and that operation in New York you and he were on. The only reason behind telling me of Suzanna was his impending death. He knew I was in a good position to look after her welfare and future. After all she was only an infant when he passed away. I met with him a week before he died and he gave me his written instructions on that date. He was adamant and precise in how she was to be raised. Initially it was Jack who funded her upbringing but when Jack's capital ran out the department took over and I was placed in charge of her.”
“Did they ever meet each other?” I asked, being sentimental.
“I can't say for sure, because I never took over until his death of course, but I would imagine they did even though Suzanna has no memory of it. I told her what I could of him and left it there.”
There was more glasses filled with the whisky, more puffs on pipes and cigarette smoke before Jack was pushed to the backs of our minds with the present day operational affairs taking over.
“Have you forgotten to turn your phone on, Patrick? Is nobody looking for any updates on my murder?”
“My dayshift Solomon, Michael Simmons, is fielding the calls. I'm very fortunate in having him.”
“Good! How's Razin shaping up?”
“He's very jumpy. It didn't help me pulling over his 'tail' on the way back from yours yesterday morning. That caused quite a diplomatic fuss. I was surprised Geoffrey didn't give my ear a bashing about it.”
“What possessed you pull the car over, laddie? I wouldn't wonder if Hardballs was upset.”
“It wasn't only petulance, Fraser.” I was upset that he didn't know why. “Strange though it must sound I was angry that you'd been shot. I wanted to shoot someone but all I had was an Opel car with three hoods inside. It was a way of making them take notice, that's all.”
“Hmm, the same weakness Jack Price suffered from.”
“You hid your association with Jack bloody well, Fraser. I knew you'd met before we all did in New York, but I hadn't a clue just how well you two were acquainted. You're just full of surprises. Got any more up your sleeve?”
I sat and listened in astonishment as he narrated a tale far more complex than the one he originally told. Jack Price had been instrumental in introducing Henry Mayler to Fraser and Razin to Fraser. I recalled Jack telling me a story of how he was presented with a three-corner chair as a kind of insult to his loyalty by a Barrington Trenchard who sounded as though he was Jack's own Geoffrey Harwood, only from a personal viewpoint he turned out to be far worse. Jack had to carry that chair from Marylebone Station to his flat in Baker Street. The same flat into which Fraser moved Bernard Higgins. By that time Jack was dead of course and had no say in the matter. Despite that fact, from what I heard from Fraser he wouldn't have raised any protest.
* * *
Suzanna's mother had a large family spread throughout the Caucasus region, stretching into Iran and Afghanistan with ancestral ties to the Assyrian race. Over the years following her death and protection of Hungary's Prime Minister János Kádár, some of her secrets became known by factions who were disadvantaged by them. They took their bloody revenge on as many of her family as they could find. Some who survived were amongst the supporters of Ahmad Bassriud and more importantly one was among the three who held the secret to unlocking both Gladio B files.
* * *
At 2am on Saturday, Liam Catlin left the British Embassy opposite Lover's Park in the centre of Yerevan, Armenia and made his way to the Genocide Memorial Complex, about half a mile away by foot. He was met there by a woman who after an exchange of spoken codes gave him directions to a square-chinned, chiselled-faced, moustached man, as tall and as wide as Liam himself. The man commented on Liam's winter clothing because as cold as it was in Yerevan that early morning in December, where they were going it was considerably colder.
“Put this on. You'll need it! The heater in this old rust-bucket of a truck is not very good. We have a three-hour journey to the north ahead of us. It will be at least twice as cold as it is here.” He tossed a heavy striped woollen Afghan shawl at Liam.
“It's the blood in the brain that freezes first,” Marek Kandarian added, as a flat grey, peaked cap followed the shawl and the chiselled chin man fixed Liam with a stare from eyes identical and as cold as his sister's.
In almost complete silence they travelled and for the last mile or so without lights on the vehicle, being guided by the blazing stars in the clear dark sky until Liam's rattling transport pulled to a halt a few hundred yards off the main connecting road from Armenia to Turkey outside the tiny village of Ashotsk. Inside the truck it stunk of tobacco, garlic from both men's breath and the stale smell of grime. Outside it was the harsh stinging taste of unmitigated cold that Liam inhaled as his gloved fingers fumbled with yet another cigarette.
“Mr Catlin, it would be a pleasure if it wasn't so cold. Your Mr Elijah calls me the Doctor.” That was how Robert Zaehner introduced himself. “I'm here as my government's representative to witness the destruction of a no longer needed record that I understand is sensitive to some. Shall we get on?”
The 'Power Book' computer was concealed beneath the floor of the crypt of a monastery carved into the side of hill in an area adjacent to where they met. On its hard drive were copies of all the original handwritten directives from Nixon and his then CIA director, together with some from the NSA director of the day and others from military commanders around the world until 1991, when this technically advanced portable computer became available. It contained the numbers and names of Panama bank accounts into which siphoned funding had been paid and from which various 'black operations' had been instigated. Central America in particular was targeted by this cache of money.
Liam connected a power line the Armenian chiselled-faced driver provided and punched in the code that he and two others had kept secret for eleven years. Robert Zaehner ran a flash drive download and when happy that all three hundred and thirty-three files were safely recovered inside the memory stick gave it with a degree of sobriety to Liam Catlin. He stood back and watched as Liam poured an accelerant on the now separated grey components of the com
puter, lit a taper and set fire to it. When the flames had died the ashes were raked over and set alight once more. Finally, what remained was crushed where it was and the crypt resealed before both men returned to their transport.
* * *
At 8:23 on the morning of the 18th December GCHQ, AIS, and the signals room at Lavington Street received the same two-worded message from outstation YA: Tickled Pink. I was made aware of the signal by Michael Simmons. From the part of the tunnel Fraser had said was secure my first call was to Razin. I held my breath and trusted Fraser's word.
* * *
Fyodor Nazarov Razin had not slept since being notified of the false reason for my hasty departure from Group's headquarters very early on Thursday morning. He was beginning to boil by the time he heard back from Moscow Centre. The man bearing the name he gave them, a dissident Russian colonel who had been banished to Dagestan where he was supposed to be held under house-arrest, could not be located. To make matters worse he had failed to register at the dedicated militsiya police station in his precinct of the city of Makhachkala for the past twelve days. He was a known member of the Shariat Jamaat Islamic Jihadist group who were also off the radar.
